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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 



ILLUSTRATED BY THIRTY-FOUR WOODCUTS, 
FROM DESIGNS BY WILLIAM HARVEY. 



HARTFORD: 
SILAS ANDRUS AND SON 

1852. 



A \0 






7jA ? t, ,'mi. 



CONTENTS. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE.— Part I 

Part II. 

THEODRIC : a Domestic Tale ... 
TRANSLATIONS:— 

Martial Elegy, from the Greek of Tyrtaeus 

Fragment, from the Greek of Alcman 

Song of Hybrias the Cretan 

Specimens of Translations from Medea . 

Speech of the Chorus, in the same Tragedy 
O'Connor's Child ; or, " The Flower of Love lies Bleeding 

Lochiel's Warning 

Ye Mariners of England. A Naval Ode 
Battle of the Baltic ... 

Hohenlinden ... . 

Glenara ........ 

Exile of Erin ... .... 

Lord Ullin's Daughter .... 

Ode to the Memory of Burns ..... 

Lines written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire 

The Soldier's Dream 

The Last Man 

A Dream .......... 

Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble, Esq., composed for a Public Meet 

ing, held June, 1817 ... . 
To the Rainbow , 



9 
31 

49 

71 

72 

73 

73 

74 

79 

89 

92 

94 

97 

98 

99 

101 

103 

107 

108 

109 

112 

115 
118 



W CONTENTS, 



PAGE. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.— Part I. ..... 125 

Part II 137 

'■ Part III 147 

Lines written at the Request of the Highland Society of London, when 
met to commemorate the 21st of March, the day of Victory in 

Egypt 161 

Stanzas to the Memory of the Spanish Patriots latest killed in resisting 

the Regency and the Duke of Angouleme . . . .163 

Song of the Greeks 165 

Ode to Winter 167 

Lines spoken by Mrs. Bartley at Drury-Lane Theatre, on the first Open- 
ing of the House after the Death of the Princess Charlotte, 1817 169 

Reullura 171 

The Turkish Lady 178 



179 
181 
182 
183 
184 



The Brave Roland . 

The Spectre-Boat.— A Ballad 

Song. — "Oh, how hard it is to find" 

The Lover to his Mistress on her Birth-day .... 

Lines on the Grave of a Suicide 

Lines on receiving a Seal with the Campbell Crest, from K. M 

before her Marriage . .... 

Gilderoy .... .... 

Stanzas on the threatened Invasion, 1803 .... 

The Wounded Hussar 

Adelgitha 

The Ritter Bann .... .... 

Song. — "When Napoleon was flying" ..... 

Song. — " Men of England " . ...... 

Song. — To the Evening Star 

The Harper 

Love and Madness. — An Elegy 

Lines inscribed on the Monument lately finished by Mr. Chantrey 
which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Camp 
bell, K. C. B., to the Memory of her Husband . .205 

Hallowed Ground 206 



185 
187 
189 
190 
191 
192 
198 
199 
200 
201 
202 



CONTENTS. 



V 



Song. — " Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers " 

Caroline — Part I. 

Part II.— To the Evening Star 

The Beech Tree's Petition ..... 

Field Flowers 

Stanzas to Painting ...... 

Absence 

The Maid's Remonstrance 

Stanzas on the Battle of Navarino . 

Lines on Revisiting a Scottish River . 

The " Name Unknown ;" in imitation of Klopstock 

Lines on the Camp Hill, near Hastings 

Farewell to Love . . . . . 

Lines on Poland ... 

A Thought suggested by the New Year . 

Song. — "How delicious is the winning" 

Margaret and Dora 

The Power of Russia 

Senex's Soliloquy on his Youthful Idol 

Lines on leaving a Scene in Bavaria . 

The Death-Boat of Heligoland 

Song. — "Earl March looked on his dying child" . 

Song. — " When Love came first to Earth " 

Song. — " Drink to her that each loves best " .... 

Lines on the Departure of Emigrants for New South Wales 

The Cherubs. — Suggested by an Apologue in the Works of Franklin 

Drinking Song of Munich 

Song on our Queen ......... 

Lines to Julia M , sent with a Copy of the Author's Poems 

To Sir Francis Burdett, on his Speech delivered in Parliament, August 7 

1832, respecting the Policy of Great Britain 

Ode to the Germans 

Lines on a Picture of a Girl in the attitude of Prayer, by the Artist Gruse 

in the possession of Lady Stepney 

Lines on Revisiting Cathcart 

a2 



PAGE. 

209 
210. 



212 

214 

215 

216 

218 

219 

220 

225 

22. 

22 

22 

22< 

232 

233 

234 

234 

238 

239 

244 

246 

247 

248 

248 

253 

256 

257 

258 

259 
261 

262 
264 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAOK. 

Lines on the view from St. Leonard's 265 

The Dead Eagle.— Written at Oran 270 

Song. — "To Love in my heart" . ... 273 

Lines written in a Blank leaf of La Perouse's Voyages . . . 274 

THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE 279 

Napoleon and the British Sailor 296 

Benlomond 299 

To a Young Lady, who asked me to write something Original for her 

Album 299 

The Child and Hind 300 

The Jilted Nymph 306 

On getting Home the Portrait of a Female Child, Six Years Old . . 307 

The Parrot 309 

Song of the Colonists departing for New Zealand . . . .310 

Cora Linn, or the Falls of the Clyde 311 

Chaucer and Windsor 313 

Moonlight 314 

Lines on my new Child-sweetheart 315 

The Launch of a First-rate 317 

To the United States of North America . . . . .318 

Lines suggested hy the Statue of Arnold Von Winkelried . 319 

Epistle, from Algiers, to Horace Smith ... . . 320 

Fragment of an Oratorio 323 

Notes 327 



THE 

PLEASURES OE HOPE 

PART THE FIRST. 



ANALYSIS. 

The Poem opens with a comparison between the beauty of remote objects 
m a landscape, and those ideal scenes of felicity which the imagination delights 
to contemplate — the influence of anticipation upon the other passions is next 
delineated— an allusion is made to the well-known fiction in Pagan tradition, 
that, when all the guardian deities of mankind abandoned the world, Hope 
alone was left behind — the consolations of this passion in situations of danger 
and distress — the seaman on his watch — the soldier marclyng into battle — 
allusion to the interesting adventures of Byron. 

The inspiration of Hope, as it actuates the efforts of genius, whether in the 
department of science, or of taste — domestic felicity, how intimately connected 
with views of future happiness — picture of a mother watching her infant when 
asleep — pictures of the prisoner, the maniac, and the wanderer. 

From the consolations of individual misery a transition is made to prospects 
of political improvement in the future state of society — the wide field that 
is yet open for the progress of humanising arts among uncivilised nations — 
from these views of amelioration of society, and the extension of liberty and 
truth over despotic and barbarous countries, by a melancholy contrast of ideas, 
we are led to reflect upon the hard fate of a brave people recently conspicuous 
in their struggles for independence — description of the capture of Warsaw, 
of the last contest of the oppressors and the oppressed, and the massacre of 
the Polish patriots at the bridge of Prague — apostrophe to the self-interested 
enemies of human improvement — the wrongs of Africa — the barbarous policy 
of Europeans in India — prophecy in the Hindoo mythology of the expected 
de&cent of the Deity to redress the miseries of their race, and to take ven- 
geance on the violators of justice and mercy. 



'//,'%■ 



U;> ■■:■: 









■■'■■ 




1 At Summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky 7" 



p. I. 



THE 



PLEASURES OF HOPE 



PART THE FIRST. 



At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near?— 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discover'd scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, 
And every form, that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. 

What potent spirit guides the raptured eye 
To pierce the shades of dim futurity 1 
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, 
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ? 
Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man — 
Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; 
Or, if she hold an image to the view, 
'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. 



10 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

With thee, sweet Hope ! resides the heavenly light, 
That pours remotest rapture on the sight : 
Thine is the charm of life's bewilder'd way, 
That calls each slumbering passion into play. 
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band, 
On tiptoe watching, start at thy command, 
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, 
To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career. 

Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say, 
When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay ; 
When every form of death, and every woe, 
Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; 
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War 
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ; 
When Peace and Mercy, banish'd from the plain, 
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ; 
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, 
But Hope, the charmer, linger'd still behind. 

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare 
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, 
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, 
Dropt on the world — a sacred gift to man. 

Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ; 
Won by their sweets, in nature's languid hour, 
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; 
There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, 
What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! 
What viewless forms th' ^olian organ play, 
And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away. 

Angel of life ! thy glittering wings explore 
Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. 




' Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, 
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul." 



p. 11 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 11 

Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields 

His bark careering o'er unfathom'd fields ; 

Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, 

Where Andes, giant of the western star, 

With meteor-standard to the winds unfurl'd, 

Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world ! 

Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles, 
On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles: 
Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow, 
From wastes that slumber in eternal snow ; 
And waft, across the waves' tumultuous roar, 
The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. 

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm, 
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! 
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay ; 
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. 

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, 
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep : 
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole, 
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul ; 
His native hills that rise in happier climes, 
The grot that heard his song of other times, 
His cottage home, his bark of slender sail, 
His glassy lake, and broom wood-blossom 'd vale, 
Rush on his thought ; he sweeps before the wind, 
Treads the loved shore he sigh'd to leave behind ; 
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, 
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; 
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear ! 
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear ! 
While, long neglected, but at length caress'd, 
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, 



12 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) 
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. 

Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour, 
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; 
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields, 
On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields, 
When front to front the banner'd hosts combine, 
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. 
When all is still on Death's devoted soil, 
The march- worn soldier mingles for the toil ! 
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high 
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye, 
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come, 
And hears thy stormy music in the drum ! 

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
The hardy Byron to his native shore — 
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep 
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 
'Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock, 
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock. 
To wake each joyless morn and search again 
The famish'd haunts of solitary men ; 
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
Know not a trace of Nature but the form ; 
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued, 
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued, 
Pierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar 
The moon's pale planet and the northern-star. 
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
Hyaenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ; 
Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime, 
He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 



PLEASURES OF HOPE 13 

A home to rest, a shelter to defend, 
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend ! 

Congenial Hope ! thy passion-kindling power, 
How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour ! 
On yon proud height, with Genius hand in hand, 
I see thee 'light, and wave thy golden wand. 

" Go, child of Heaven ! (thy winged words proclaim) 
'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame ! 
Lo ! Newton, priest of nature, shines afar, 
Scans the wide world, and numbers every star ' 
Wilt thou, with him, mysterious rites apply, 
And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye ! 
Yes, thou shalt mark, with magic art profound, 
The speed of light, the circling march of sound ; 
With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, 
Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. 

"The Swedish sage admires, in yonder bowers. 
His winged insects, and his rosy flowers ; 
Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train, 
With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain — 
So once, at Heaven's command, the wanderers came 
To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. 

" Far from the world, in yon sequester'd clime, 
Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime ; 
Calm as the fields of Heaven, his sapient eye 
The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, 
Admiring Plato, on his spotless page, 
Stamps the bright dictates of the Father sage : 
' Shall Nature bound to earth's diurnal span 
The fire of God, th' immortal soul of man V 

"Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lighten'd eye 
To Wisdom's walks, the sacred Nine are nigh : 



14 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Hark ! from bright spires that gild the Delphian height, 
From streams that wander in eternal light, 
Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell 
The mingling tones of horn, and harp, and shell ; 
Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow, 
And Pythia's awful organ peals below. 

" Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed 
Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ; 
Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, 
And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind. 
I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, 
And talk with spirits on the midnight heath ; 
Enquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, 
And ask each blood-stain'd form his earthly name ; 
Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, 
And read the trembling world the tales of hell. 

" When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue, 
Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, 
And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, 
Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy ; 
A milder mood the goddess shall recal, 
And soft as dew thy tones of music fall ; 
While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart 
A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart — 
Warm as thy sighs shall flow the Lesbian strain, 
And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain. 

"Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem, 
And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream; 
To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile — 
For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile ; — 
On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief, 
And teach impassion'd souls the joy of grief? 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 15 

"Yes; to thy tongue shall seraph words be given, 
And power on earth to plead the cause of Heaven ; 
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, 
That never mused on sorrow but its own, 
Unlocks a generous store at thy command, 
Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. 
The living lumber of his kindred earth, 
Charm'd into soul, receives a second birth, 
Feels thy dread power another heart afford, 
Whose passion-touch'd harmonious strings accord 
True as the circling spheres to Nature's plan ; 
And man, the brother, lives the friend of man. 

" Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command, 
When Israel march'd along the desert land, 
Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, 
And told the path, — a never-setting star: 
So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, 
Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine." 

Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy 
The sacred home of Hymenean joy ; 
When doom'd to Poverty's sequester'd dell, 
The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, 
Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame, 
Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same — - 
Oh, there, prophetic Hope ! thy smile bestow, 
And chase the pangs that worth should never know — 
There, as the parent deals his scanty store 
To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, 
Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage 
Their father's wrongs, and shield his latter age. 
What though for him no Hybla sweets distil, 
Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill ; 



16 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Tell, that when silent years have pass'd away, 
That when his eye grows dim, his tresses grey, 
These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, 
And deck with fairer flowers his little field, 
And call from Heaven propitious dews to breathe 
Arcadian beauty on the barren heath ; 
Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears 
The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, 
Health shall prolong to many a festive hour 
The social pleasures of his humble bower. 

Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, 
Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; 
She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, 
And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
"Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy; 
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; 
No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine; 
Bright as his manly sire the son shall be 
In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he ! 
Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love at last, 
Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — 
With many a smile my solitude repay, 
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 

" And say, when summon'd from the world and thee, 
I lay my head beneath the willow tree, 
Wilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, 
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near ! 
Oh, wilt thou come at evening hour to shed 
The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed ; 
With aching temples on thy hand reclined, 
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 17 

Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, 
And think on all my love, and all my woe V 

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 
Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim 
A mother's ear by that endearing name ; 
Soon as the playful innocent can prove 
A tear of pity, or a smile of love, 
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, 
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, 
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; 
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, 
At every artless tear, and every smile ; 
How glows the joyous parent to descry 
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! 

Where is the troubled heart consign'd to share 
Tumultuous toils, or solitary care, 
Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray 
To count the joys of Fortune's better day ! 
Lo, nature, life, and liberty relume 
The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom, 
A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, 
Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board ; 
Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, 
And virtue triumphs o'er remember'd woe. 

Chide not his peace, proud Reason ! nor destroy 
The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, 
That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour 
Spontaneous slumber on his midnight hour. 
Hark! the wild maniac sings, to chide the gale 
That wafts so slow 7 her lover's distant sail ; 
3 b2 



IS PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore, 

Watch'd the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, 

Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, 

Clasp'd her cold hands, and fix'd her maddening gaze : 

Poor widow'd wretch! 'twas there she wept in vain, 

Till Memory fled her agonising brain ; 

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, 

Ideal peace, that Truth could ne'er bestow ; 

Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam, 

And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. 

Oft when yon moon has climb'd the midnight sky, 
And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, 
Piled on the steep, her blazing faggots burn 
To hail the bark that never can return ; 
And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep 
That constant love can linger on the deep. 

And, mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew 
The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue ; 
Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore, 
But found not pity when it err'd no more. 
Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye 
Th' unfeeling proud one looks — and passes by, 
Condemn'd on Penury's barren path to roam, 
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home — 
Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray 
Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, 
Where, round the cot's romantic glade, are seen 
The blossom'd bean-field, and the sloping green, 
Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while — 
Oh ! that for me some home like this would smile, 
Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form 
Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm ! 




" Oft when yon moon hag climb'd the midnight sky, 
And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry, 
Filed on the steep, her blazing faggots burn 
To hail the bark that never can return." 



p. 13. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 19 

There should my hand no stinted boon assign 
To wretched heart with sorrow such as mine ! — 
That generous wish can soothe unpitied care, 
And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer. 

Hope ! when I mourn, with sympathising mind, 
The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind, 
Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see 
The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; 
I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan, 
And learn the future by the past of man. 

Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime; 
Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore. 
On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along, 
And the dread Indian chants a dismal song, 
Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, 
And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, 
There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, 
And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day; 
Each wandering genius of the lonely glen 
Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men, 
And silent watch, on woodland heights around, 
The village curfew as it tolls profound. 

In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, 
That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, 
Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, 
Wild Obi flies — the veil is rent in twain. 

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, 

Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; 

Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, 

From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, 

B 



20 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Truth shall pervade th' unfathom'd darkness there, 
And light the dreadful features of despair. — 
Hark ! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, 
And asks the image back that Heaven bestow'd ! 
Fierce in his eye the fire of valour burns, 
And, as the slave departs, the man returns. 

Oh ! sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while, 
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile 
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars 
Her whisker'd pandoors and her fierce hussars, 
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of Morn, 
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet horn 5 
Tumultuous Horror brooded o'er her van, 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd, 
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid, — 
Oh ! Heaven ! he cried, my bleeding country save ! — 
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, 
Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains ! 
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high ! 
And swear for her to live ! — with her to die ! 

He said, and on the rampart heights array 'd 
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd ; 
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, 
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, 
Revenge, or death, — the watch-word and reply ; 
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, 
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm ! — 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew : — 




" Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! 
Earth shook — red meteors flash'd along the sky, 
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry !" 



p. 21. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 21 

Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, 
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, 
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! 
Dropp'd from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, 
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career ; 
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, 
And Freedom shriek'd — as Kosciusko fell ! 

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there, 
Tumultuous Murder shook the midnight air — 
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, 
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; 
The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, 
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 
Hark, as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, 
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call ! 
Earth shook — red meteors flash'd along the sky, 
And conscious Nature shudder'd at the cry ! 

Oh ! righteous Heaven ; ere Freedom found a grave, 
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 
Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod, 
That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; 
That crush'd proud Amnion, when his iron car 
Was yoked in wrath, and thunder'd from afar ? 
Where was the storm that slumber'd till the host 
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; 
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 
And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead ! 
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled ! 
Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man, 
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ? 



22 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 
And make her arm puissant as your own ! 
Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return 
The patriot Tell — the Bruce of Bannockburn ! 

Yes ! thy proud lords, unpitied land ! shall see 
That man hath yet a soul — and dare be free ! 
A little while, along thy saddening plains, 
The starless night of Desolation reigns ; 
Truth shall restore the light by Nature given, 
And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven ! 
Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurl'd, 
Her name, her nature, wither'd from the world ! 

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark, 
And hate the light — because your deeds are dark ; 
Ye that expanding truth invidious view, 
And think, or wish, the song of Hope untrue ; 
Perhaps your little hands presume to span 
The march of Genius and the powers of man ; 
Perhaps ye watch, at Pride's unhallow'd shrine, 
Her victims, newly slain, and thus divine : — 
" Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease, and here 
Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career." 

Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ; 
In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring : 
What! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, 
Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep ? 
No ! — the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand : 
It roll'd not back when Canute gave command ! 

Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? 
Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow ? 
Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd ? 
Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 23 

What ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied ? 
Why then hath Plato lived — or Sidney died 1 — 

Ye fond adorers of departed fame, 
Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name ! 
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire 
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre ! 
Rapt in historic ardour, who adore 
Each classic haunt, and well-remember'd shore, 
Where Valour tuned, amidst her chosen throng, 
The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song; 
Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms 
Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms ! 
See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, 
And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! 
Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, 
Hath Valour left the world — to live no more ? 
No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die, 
And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? 
Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, 
Encounter Fate, and triumph as he falls ? 
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm, 
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm ? 

Yes ! in that generous cause, forever strong, 
The patriot's virtue and the poet's song, 
Still, as the tide of ages roll away, 
Shall charm the world unconscious of decay. 

Yes ! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust, 
That slumber yet in uncreated dust, 
Ordain'd to fire th' adoring sons of earth, 
With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; 
Ordain'd to light, with intellectual day, 
The mazy wheels of nature as they play, 



24 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow, 
And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. 

And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan 
Heaven's dark decrees, unfathom'd yet by man, 
When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame. 
That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — 
That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands 
Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands ? 
Who, sternly marking on his native soil 
The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, 
Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to see 
Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free ! 

Yet, yet, degraded men ! th' expected day 
That breaks your bitter cup, is far away ; 
Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed, 
And holy men give Scripture for the deed; 
Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to save 
A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! — 

Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand 
Had heaved the floods, and fix'd the trembling land, 
When life sprang startling at thy plastic call, 
Endless her forms, and man the lord of all ! 
Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee 
To wear eternal chains and bow the knee ? 
Was man ordain'd the slave of man to toil, 
Yoked with the brutes, and fetter'd to the soil ; 
Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold ? 
No ! — Nature stamp'd us in a heavenly mould ! 
She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge, 
Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge ! 
No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep, 
To call upon his country's name, and weep ! 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 25 

Lo ! once in triumph, on his boundless plain, 
The quiver'd chief of Congo loved to reign ; 
With fires proportioned to his native sky, 
Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; 
Scour'd with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, 
The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own ! 
Or led the combat, bold without a plan, 
An artless savage, but a fearless man ! 

The plunderer came ! — alas ! no glory smiles 
For Congo's chief, on yonder Indian isles ; 
For ever fall'n ! no son of Nature now, 
With Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! 
Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, 
And when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day, 
Starts, with a bursting heart, for evermore 
To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore ! 

The shrill horn blew ; at that alarum knell 
His guardian angel took a last farewell ! 
That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd 
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind ! 
Poor fetter'd man ! I hear thee whispering low 
Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe, 
Friendless thy heart, and canst thou harbour there 
A wish but death — a passion but despair ? 

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, 
Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires ' 
So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh ! 
So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! 

But not to Libya's barren climes alone, 
To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, 
Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, 
Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh ! — 

3 



26 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! 
Prolific fields ! dominions of the sun ! 
How long your tribes have trembled and obey'd ! 
How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd, 
Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the plain, 
From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, 
Raged o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare, 
With blazing torch and gory cimitar, — 
Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale, 
And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! 
Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, 
When Brama's children perish'd for his name ; 
The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, 
And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour ! 

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, 
And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main, 
Taught her proud barks the winding way to shape, 
And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape ; 
Children of Brama ! then was Mercy nigh 
To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ? 
Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save, 
When freeborn Britons cross'd the Indian wave ? 
Ah, no ! — to more than Rome's ambition true, 
The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you ! 
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began, 
And, in the march of nations, led the van ! 

Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone, 
And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own, 
Degenerate trade ! thy minions could despise 
The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; 
Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store, 
While famish'd nations died along the shore : 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 27 

Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear 
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair; 
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, 
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame ! 

But hark ! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels, 
From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! 
Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell, 
Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell, 
And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, 
Roll on the azure paths of every wind. 

Foes of mankind ! (her guardian spirits say,) 
Revolving ages bring the bitter day 
When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, 
And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew ; 
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurl'd 
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ; 
Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, 
Convulsive trembled, as the Mighty came ; 
Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain — 
But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again ! 
He comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky 
With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high, 
Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, 
Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! 
Wide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms glow 
Like summer suns, and light the world below ! 



Earth, and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed, 
Are shook ; and Nature rocks beneath his tread ! 

" To pour redress on India's injured realm, 
The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; 
To chase destruction from her plunder'd shore 
With arts and arms that triumph'd once before, 



28 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

The tenth Avater comes ! at Heaven's command 
Shall Seriswatte wave her hallow 'd wand ! 
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime, 
Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime ! — 
Come, Heavenly Powers ! primeval peace restore ! 
L ove J — Mercy ! — Wisdom ! — rule for evermore !" 



THE 

PLEASURES OE HOPE. 

PART THE SECOND. 



ANALYSIS. 

Apostrophe to the power of Love — its intimate connexion with generc is 
and social Sensibility — allusion to that beautiful passage in the beginning of 
the Book of Genesis, which represents the happiness of Paradise itself in- 
complete, till love was superadded to its other blessings — the dreams of future 
felicity which a lively imagination is apt to cherish, when Hope is animated 
by refined attachment — this disposition to combine, in one imaginary scene of 
residence, all that is pleasing in our estimate of happiness, compared to the 
skill of the great artist who personified perfect beauty in the picture of Venus, 
by an assemblage of the most beautiful features he could find — a summer and 
winter evening described, as they may be supposed to arise in the mind of 
one who wishes, with enthusiasm, for the union of friendship and retirement 

Hope and Imagination inseparable agents — even in those contemplative 
moments when our imagination wanders beyond the boundaries of this world, 
our minds are not unattended with an impression that we shall some day have 
a wider and more distinct prospect of the universe, instead of the partial 
glimpse we now enjoy. 

The last and most sublime influence 01 Hope is the concluding topic of the 
p 0em — the predominance of a belief in a future state over the terrors attendant 
on dissolution — the baneful influence of that sceptical philosophy which bars 
us from such comforts — allusion to the fate of a 6uicide — episode of Conrad 
and Ellenore — conclusion. 



^rtM 




' In joyous youth, what soul hath never known 
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ? 
Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye 
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh ?" p.31. 



THE 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 



PART THE SECOND, 



In joyous youth, what soul hath never known 
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own ? 
Who hath not paused while Beauty's pensive eye 
Ask'd from his heart the homage of a sigh ? 
Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, 
The power of grace, the magic of a name ? 

There be, perhaps, who barren hearts avow, 
Cold as the rocks on Torneo's hoary brow ; 
There be, whose loveless wisdom never fail'd, 
In self-adoring pride securely mail'd : — 
But, triumph not,. ye peace-enamour'd few! 
Fire, Nature, Genius, never dwelt with you ! 
For you no fancy consecrates the scene 
Where rapture utter'd vows, and wept between ; 
'Tis yours, unmoved, to sever and to meet ; 
No pledge is sacred, and no home is sweet ! 

Who that would ask a heart to dulness wed, 
The waveless calm, the slumber of the dead ? 
No; the wild bliss of Nature needs alloy, 
And fear and sorrow fan the fire of joy ! 
And say, without our hopes, without our fears, 
Without the home that plighted love endears, 



32 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Without the smile from partial beauty won, 
Oh ! what were man ? — a world without a sun. 

Till Hymen brought his love-delighted hour, 
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy bower ! 
In vain the viewless seraph lingering there 
At starry midnight charm'd the silent air ; 
In vain the wild-bird caroll'd on the steep, 
To hail the sun, slow wheeling from the deep ; 
In vain, to soothe the solitary shade, 
Aerial notes in mingling measure play'd ; 
The summer wind that shook the spangled tree, 
The whispering wave, the murmur of the bee ; 
Still slowly pass'd the melancholy day, 
And still the stranger wist not where to stray. 
The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! 
And man, the hermit, sigh'd — till woman smiled ! 

True, the sad power to generous hearts may bring 
Delirious anguish on his fiery wing ; 
Barr'd from delight by Fate's untimely hand, 
By wealthless lot, or pitiless command ; 
Or doom'd to gaze on beauties that adorn 
The smile of triumph or the frown of scorn; 
While Memory watches o'er the sad review 
Of joys that faded like the morning dew ; 
Peace may depart — and life and nature seem 
A barren path, a wildness, and a dream ! 

But can the noble mind for ever brood, 
The willing victim of a weary mood, 
On heartless cares that squander life away, 
And cloud young Genius brightening into day ? — 
Shame to the coward thought that e'er betray'd 
The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! — 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 33 

If Hope's creative spirit cannot raise 

One trophy sacred to thy future days, 

Scorn the dull crowd that haunts the gloomy shrine, 

Of hopeless love to murmur and repine ! 

But, should a sigh of milder mood express 

Thy heart-warm wishes, true to happiness, 

Should Heaven's fair harbinger delight to pour 

Her blissful visions on thy pensive hour, 

No tear to blot thy memory's pictured page, 

No fears but such as fancy can assuage ; 

Though thy wild heart some hapless hour may miss 

The peaceful tenor of unvaried bliss, 

(For love pursues an ever-devious race, 

True to the winding lieneaments of grace ;) 

Yet still may Hope her talisman employ 

To snatch from Heaven anticipated joy, 

And all her kindred energies impart 

That burn the brightest in the purest heart. 

When first the Rhodian's mimic art array'd 
The Queen of Beauty in her Cyprian shade, 
The happy master mingled on his piece 
Each look that charm'd him in the fair of Greece. 
To faultless Nature true, he stole a grace 
From every finer form and sweeter face ; 
And as he sojourn'd on the iEgean isles, 
Woo'd all their love, and treasured all their smiles ; 
Then glow'd the tints, pure, precious, and refined, 
And mortal charms seem'd heavenly when combined ! 
Love on the picture smiled ! Expression pour'd 
Her mingling spirit there — and Greece adored ! 

So thy fair hand, enamour'd Fancy ! gleans 
The treasured pictures of a thousand scenes ; 



34 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought 

Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, 

Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, 

With Peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers ! 

Remote from busy Life's bewilder'd way, 

O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway ! 

Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, 

With hermit steps to wander and adore ! 

There shall he love, when genial morn appears, 

Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, 

To watch the brightening roses of the sky, 

And muse on Nature with a poet's eye ! — 

And when the sun's last splendour lights the deep, 

The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, 

When fairy harps th' Hesperian planet hail, 

And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, 

His path shall be where streamy mountains swell 

Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell, 

Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, 

Mingling with darker tints the living green ; 

No circling hills his ravish'd eye to bound, 

Heaven, Earth, and Ocean, blazing all around. 

The moon is up — the watch-tower dimly burns — 
And down the vale his sober step returns ; 
But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey 
The still sweet fall of music far away ; 
And oft he lingers from his home awhile 
To watch the dying notes ! — and start, and smile ! 

Let winter come ! let polar spirits sweep 
The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep ! 
Though boundless snows the wither'd heath deform, 
And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, 




" Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, 
And light the wintry paradise of home ; 
And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail 
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale !" 



p. 35. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 35 

Yet shall the smile of social love repay, 

With mental light, the melancholy day ! 

And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, 

The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, 

How bright the faggots in his little hall 

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall ! 

How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone, 
The kind fair friend, by nature mark'd his own ; 
And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, 
Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, 
Since when her empire o'er his heart began ! 
Since first he call'd her his before the holy man ! 

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, 
And light the wintry paradise of home ; 
And let the half-uncurtain'd window hail 
Some way-worn man benighted in the vale ! 
Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, 
As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, 
While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play, 
And bathe in lurid light the milky-way, 
Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, 
Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour — 
With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, 
A generous tear of anguish, or a smile — 
Thy woes, Arion ! and thy simple tale, 
O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail ! 
Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true, 
How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, 
Heaved all their guns, their foundering bark to save, 
And toil'd — and shriek'd — and perish'd on the wave ! 

Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep ; 



36 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

There on his funeral waters, dark and wild, 
The dying father bless'd his darling child ! 
Oh ! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried, 
Spent on the prayer his bursting heart, and died ! 

Or they will learn how generous worth sublimes 
The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes ! 
How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear, 
His hand, blood-stain'd, but ever, ever dear ! 
Hung on the tortured bosom of her lord, 
And wept and pray'd perdition from his sword ! 
Nor sought in vain ! at that heart-piercing cry, 
The strings of Nature crack'd with agony ! 
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd, 
And burst the ties that bound him to the world ! 

Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel 
The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel — 
Turn to the gentler melodies that suit 
Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute ; 
Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page, 
From clime to clime descend, from age to age ! 

Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude 
Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood ; 
There shall he pause with horrent brow, to rate 
What millions died — that Csesar might be great ! 
Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, 
March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore ; 
Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, 
The Swedish soldier sunk — and groan'd his last ! 
File after file the stormy showers benumb, 
Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! 
Horseman and horse confess'd the bitter pang, 
And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang ! 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 37 

Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, 
Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze, 
The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye, 
Thought of his home, and closed it with a sigh ! 
Imperial Pride look'd sullen on his plight, 
And Charles beheld — nor shudder'd at the sight i 

Above, below, in Ocean, Earth, and Sky, 
Thy fairy worlds, Imagination, lie, 
And Hope attends, companion of the way, 
Thy dream by night, thy visions of the day ! 
In yonder pensile orb, and every sphere 
That gems the starry girdle of the year; 
In those unmeasured worlds, she bids thee tell, 
Pure from their God, created millions dwell, 
Whose names and natures, unreveal'd below, 
We yet shall learn, and wonder as we know ; 
For, as Iona's saint, a giant form, 
Throned on her towers, conversing with the storm, 
(When o'er each Runic altar, weed-entwined, 
The vesper clock tolls mournful to the wind,) 
Counts every wave-worn isle, and mountain hoar, 
From Kilda to the green Ierne's shore; 
So, when thy pure and renovated mind 
This perishable dust hath left behind, 
Thy seraph eye shall count the starry train, 
Like distant isles embosom'd in the main; 
Rapt to the shrine where motion first began, 
And light and life in mingling torrent ran; 
From whence each bright rotundity was hurl'd, 
The throne of G od, — the centre of the world ! 

Oh ! vainly wise, the moral Muse hath sung 
That suasive Hope hath but a Siren tongue! 



38 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

True ; she may sport with life's untutor'd day, 
Nor heed the solace of its last decay, 
The guileless heart her happy mansion spurn, 
And part, like Ajut — never to return ! 

But yet, methinks, when Wisdom shall assuage 
The grief and passions of our greener age, 
Though dull the close of life, and far away 
Each flower that hail'd the dawning of the day ; 
Yet o'er her lovely hopes, that once were dear, 
The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe, 
With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill, 
And weep their falsehood, though she loves them still ! 

Thus, with forgiving tears, and reconciled, 
The king of Judah mourn'd his rebel child ! 
Musing on days when yet the guiltless boy 
Smiled on his sire, and fill'd his heart with joy ; 
My Absalom ! the voice of nature cried, 
Oh ! that for thee thy father could have died ! 
For bloody was the deed, and rashly done, 
That slew my Absalom ! — my son ! — my son ! 

Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! 
Oh! then, thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! 
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, 
And all the phoenix spirit burns within ! 

Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 




'Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, 
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Hoat the sweet tones of star-born melody." 



p. 89 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 39 

Yet half I hear the panting spirit sigh, 
It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! 
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run, 
From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, 
A warning comes, unheard by other ears, 
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, 
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume 
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ; 
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul! 
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, 
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, 
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, 
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; 
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail 
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still 
Watch' d on the holy towers of Zion hill ! 

Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! 
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? 



40 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, 
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; 
Doom'd on his airy path a while to burn, 
And doom'd like thee, to travel, and return. — 
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, 
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; 
From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, 
He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; 
But wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd 
Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; 
And o'er the path by mortal never trod, 
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! 

Oh ! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, 
One hopeless, dark idolater of Chance, 
Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, 
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 
Who, mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust, 
In joyless union wedded to the dust, 
Could all his parting energy dismiss, 
And call this barren world sufficient bliss ? — 
There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien, 
Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, 
Who hail thee, Man ! the pilgrim of a day, 
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay, 
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower, 
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower; 
A friendless slave, a child without a sire, 
Whose mortal fife and momentary fire 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 41 

Light to the grave his chance-created form, 
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm ; 
And, when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, 
To night and silence sink for evermore ! — 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 
Lights of the world, and de mi-gods of Fame ? 
Is this your triumph — this your proud applause, 
Children of Truth, and champions of her cause ? 
For this hath Science search'd, on weary wing, 
By shore and sea — each mute and living thing ! 
Launch'd with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 
To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep ? 
Or round the cope her living chariot driven, 
And wheel'd in triumph through the signs of Heaven. 
Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, 
To waft us home the message of despair ? 
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit, 
Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit ! 
Ah me ! the laurell'd wreath that Murder rears, 
Blood-nursed, and water'd by the widow's tears, 
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 
As waves the night-shade round the sceptic head. 
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain ? 
I smile on death, if Heaven-ward Hope remain ! 
But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife 
Be all the faithless charter of my life, 
If Chance awaked, inexorable power, 
This frail and feverish being of an hour; 
Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, 
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 
To know Delight but by her parting smile, 
And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; 
6 d2 



42 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Then melt, ye elements, that form'd in vain 
This troubled pulse, and visionary brain ! 
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, 
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 
Truth, ever lovely, — since the world began, 
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, — 
How can thy words from balmy slumber start 
Reposing Virtue, pillow'd on the heart! 
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder roll'd, 
And that were true which Nature never told, 
Let Wisdom smile not on her conquer'd field ; 
No rapture dawns, no treasure is reveal'd ! 
Oh ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, 
The doom that bars us from a better fate ; 
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! 

And well may Doubt, the mother of Dismay, 
Pause at her martyr's tomb, and read the lay. 
Down by the wilds of yon deserted vale, 
It darkly hints a melancholy tale ! 
There as the homeless madman sits alone. 
In hollow winds he hears a spirit moan ! 
And there, they say, a wizard orgie crowds, 
W T hen the Moon lights her watch-tower in the 

clouds. 
Poor lost Alonzo ! Fate's neglected child ! 
Mild be the doom of Heaven — as thou wert mild ! 
For oh ! thy heart in holy mould was cast, 
And all thy deeds were blameless, but the last. 
Poor lost Alonzo ! still I seem to hear 
The clod that struck thy hollow-sounding bier! 



THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 43 

When Friendship paid, in speechless sorrow drown'd, 
Thy midnight rites, but not on hallo vv'd ground ! 

Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind, 
But leave — oh ! leave the light of Hope behind ! 
What though my winged hours of bliss have been, 
Like angel-visits, few and far between, 
Her musing mood shall every pang appease, 
And charm — when pleasures lose the power to please ! 
Yes ; let each rapture, dear to Nature, flee : 
Close not the light of Fortune's stormy sea — 
Mirth, Music, Friendship, Love's propitious smile, 
Chase every care, and charm a little while, 
Ecstatic throbs the fluttering heart employ, 
And all her strings are harmonised to joy ! — 
But why so short is Love's delighted hour ? 
Why fades the dew on Beauty's sweetest flower ? 
Why can no hymned charm of music heal 
The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel ? 
Can Fancy's fairy hands no veil create, 
To hide the sad realities of fate ? — 

No ! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, 
Nor all the pride of Wisdom's worldly school 
Have power to soothe, unaided and alone, 
The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone ! 
When stepdame Nature every bliss recals, 
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls ; 
When, 'reft of all, yon widow'd sire appears 
A lonely hermit in the vale of years ; 
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow 
To Friendship, weeping at the couch of Woe ? 
No ! but a brighter soothes the last adieu, — 
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you ! 

C2 



44 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Weep not, she says, at Nature's transient pain, 
Congenial spirits part to meet again ! 

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew, 
What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu ! 
Daughter of Conrad ! when he heard his knell, 
And bade his country and his child farewell ! 
Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, 
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee ! 
Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, 
And thrice return'd, to bless thee, and to part ; 
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low 
The plaint that own'd unutterable woe ; 
Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, 
As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom, 
Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, 
Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time ! 

" And weep not thus," he cried, " young Ellenore, 
My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more ! 
Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn, 
And soon these limbs to kindred dust return ! 
But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, 
The immortal ties of Nature shall expire ; 
These shall resist the triumph of decay, 
When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away ! 
Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, 
But that which warm'd it once shall never die ! 
That spark unburied in its mortal frame, 
With living light, eternal, and the same, 
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years, 
Unveil'd by darkness — unassuaged by tears ! 

" Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, 
One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep ; 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 45 

But when I gain the home without a friend, 
And press the uneasy couch where none attend, 
This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart, 
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part ! 
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, 
And hush the groan of life's last agony ! 

" Farewell ! when strangers lift thy father's bier, 
And place my nameless stone without a tear ; 
When each returning pledge hath told my child 
That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled ; 
And when the dream of troubled Fancy sees 
Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze ; 
Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er ? 
Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore ? 
Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, 
Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied ? 
Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good 
Will woo thee from the shades of solitude ! 
O'er friendless grief Compassion shall awake, 
And smile on innocence, for Mercy's sake !" 

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, 
The tears of Love were hopeless, but for thee ! 
If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, 
If that faint murmur be the last farewell, 
If Fate unite the faithful but to part, 
Why is their memory sacred to the heart ? 
Why does the brother of my childhood seem 
Restored a while in every pleasing dream ? 
Why do I joy the lonely spot to view, 
By artless friendship bless'd when life was new ? 

Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, 



46 PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade. — 
When all the sister planets have decay'd ; 
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow, 
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below 
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 



TIEODRIC: 



A DOMESTIC TALE, 




" Twas sunset, and the Ranz dez Vaches was sung, 
And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains tlung, 
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, 
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below." 

p. W. 



THEODRIC. 



A DOMESTIC TALE. 



Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung, 
And lights were o'er th' Helvetian mountains flung, 
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, 
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below. 
Warmth flush'd the wonted regions of the storm, 
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle's form, 
That high in Heaven's vermilion wheel'd and soar'd, 
Woods nearer frown'd, and cataracts dash'd and roar'd 
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; 
Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between, 
And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish' d 

green : 
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! 
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, 
And roving with his minstrelsy across 
The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss. 
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd, 
She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct, 
That felt Heaven's ardent breath, and smiled below 
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow. 

A Gothic church was near ; the spot around 
Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground ; 
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, 
But roses blossom'd by each rustic tomb. 
5 



50 THEODRIC. 

Amidst them one of spotless marble shone — 
A maiden's grave — and ' tvvas inscribed thereon, 
That young and loved she died whose dust was there : 

" Yes," said my comrade, " young she died, and fair \ 
Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd 
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : 
Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along, 
And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song : 
Yet woo'd, and worshipp'd as she was, till few 
Aspired to hope, 't was sadly, strangely true, 
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd 
And died of love that could not be return'd. 

Her father dwelt where yonder Castle shines 
O'er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines. 
As gay as ever, the laburnum's pride 
Waves o'er each walk where she was wont to glide, — 
And still the garden whence she graced her brow, 
As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now. 
How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake, 
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake 
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, 
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear ! 
Thus bright, accomplish'd, spirited, and bland, 
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, 
Why had no gallant native youth the art 
To win so warm — so exquisite a heart ? 
She, 'midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong 
By mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, 
Herself descended from the brave in arms, 
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, 
Dreamt of Heroic beings ; hoped to find 
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind ; 




" How oft, from yonder window o'er the lake, 
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake 
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, 
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear I" 



p. oft 



THEODRIC. 51 

And, scorning wealth, look'd cold ev'n on the claim 
Of manly worth, that lack'd the wreath of fame. 

Her younger brother, sixteen summers old, 
And much her likeness both in mind and mould, 
Had gone, poor boy ! in soldiership to shine, 
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine. 
'T was when, alas ! our Empire's evil star 
Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war ; 
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish cross'd 
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost. 
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day ; 
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say, 
One corps had ever made a valiant stand, — 
The corps in which he served, — Theodric's band. 
His fame, forgotten chief! is now gone by, 
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in Glory's sky ; 
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show 
Our fields of battle twenty years ago, 
Will tell you feats Ins small brigade perform'd, 
In charges nobly faced and trenches storm'd. 
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame, 
And soldiers loved the March that bore his name : 
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call, 
And that Helvetian's, Udolph's, most of all. 
'T was touching, when the storm of war blew 

wild, 
To see a blooming boy, — almost a child, — 
Spur fearless at his leader's words and signs, 
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines, 
And speed each task, and tell each message clear, 
In scenes where war-train'd men were stunn'd with 

fear. 



52 THEODRIC 

Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy 
In yonder house, — when letters from the boy 
Thank'd Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase, 
Than twenty lives — his own Commander's praise. 
Then follow'd glowing pages, blazoning forth 
The fancied image of his leader's worth, 
With such hyperboles of youthful style 
As made his parents dry their tears and smile : 
But differently far his words impressed 
A wondering sister's well-believing breast; — 
She caught th' illusion, bless'd Theodric's name, 
And wildly magnified his worth and fame ; 
Rejoicing life's reality contain'd 

One, heretofore, her fancy had but feign'd, [chance 
Whose love could make her proud ! — and time and 
To passion raised that day-dream of Romance. 

Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man 
Our arriere-guard had check'd the Gallic van, 
Theodric, visiting the outposts, found 
His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground : 
Sore crush'd, — half-swooning, half-upraised he lay, 
And bent his brow, fair boy ! and grasp'd the clay. 
His fate moved ev'n the common soldier's ruth — 
Theodric succour'd him ; nor left the youth 
To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent, 
And lent what aid a brother would have lent. 

Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart 
The war-gazette's dread blood-roll might impart, 
He wrote th' event to them ; and soon could tell 
Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well ; 
And last of all, prognosticating cure, 
Enclosed the leech's a ouching signature. 



THEODRIC. 53 

Their answers, on whose pages you might note 
That tears had fall'n, whilst trembling fingers wrote, 
Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferr'd, 
Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word, 
Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot ; 
But which the giver had himself forgot. 

In time, the stripling, vigorous and heaPd, 
Resumed his barb and banner in the field, 
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now 
The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow, 
When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath, — 
A curtain-drop between the acts of death, — 
A check in frantic war's unfinish'd game, 
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came. 
The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief 
As with a son's or younger brother's grief: 
But journeying home, how rapt his, spirits rose ! 
How light his footsteps crush'd St. Gothard's snows; 
How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shreckhorn, 
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn 
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms ; 
Where, by the very smell of dairy farms, 
A fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown, 
Blindfold his native hills he could have known ! 

His coming down yon lake, — his boat in view 
Of windows where love's fluttering kerchief flew, — 
The arms spread out for him — the tears that burst,— 
('T was Julia's, 't was his sister's, met him first : 
Their pride to see war's medal at his breast, 
And all their rapture's greeting, may be guess'd. 

Ere long, his bosom triumph'd to unfold 
A gift he meant their gayest room to hold, — 

e2 



54 THEODRIC. 

The picture of a friend in warlike dress; 
And who it was he first bade Julia guess. 
'Yes/ she replied, "twas he methought in sleep, 
When you were wounded, told me not to weep.' 
The painting long in that sweet mansion drew 
Regards its living semblance little knew. 

Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before 
Learnt England's tongue, and loved her classic lore, 
A glad enthusiast now explored the land, 
Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand ; 
Her women fair ; her men robust for toil ; 
Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil ; 
Her towns, where civic independence flings 
The gauntlet down to senates, courts and kings ; 
Her works of art, resembling magic's powers ; 
Her mighty fleets, and learning's beauteous bowers, — 
These he had visited, with wonder's smile, 
And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle. 
But how our fates from unmomentous things 
May rise, like rivers out of little springs ! 
A trivial chance postponed his parting day, 
And public tidings caused, in that delay, 
An English Jubilee. 'Twas a glorious sight; 
At eve stupendous London, clad in light, 
Pour'd out triumphant multitudes to gaze ; 
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze; 
Th' illumined atmosphere was warm and bland, 
And Beauty's groups, the fairest of the land, 
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room, 
In open chariots pass'd with pearl and plume. 
Amidst them he remark'd a lovelier mien 
Than e'er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen; 



THEODRIC. 55 

The throng detain'd her till he rein'd his steed, 
And, ere the beauty pass'd, had time to read 
The motto and the arms her carriage bore. 
Led by that clue, he left not England's shore 
Till he had known her; and to know her well 
Prolong'd, exalted, bound, enchantment's spell ; 
For with affections warm, intense, refined, 
She mix'd such calm and holy strength of mind, 
That, like Heaven's image in the smiling brook, 
Celestial peace was pictured in her look. 
Hers was the brow, in trials unperplex'd, 
That cheer'd the sad, and tranquillised the vex'd ; 
She studied not the meanest to eclipse, 
And yet the wisest listen'd to her lips ; 
She sang not, knew not Music's magic skill, 
But yet her voice had tones that sway'd the will. 
He sought — he won her — and resolved to make 
His future home in England for her sake. 

Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern 
To Cesar's Court commanded his return, 
A season's space, — and on his Alpine way, 
He reach'd those bowers, that rang with joy that day : 
The boy was half beside himself, — the sire, 
All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire, 
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak ; 
And tears bedew'd and brighten'd Julia's cheek. 

Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride, 
A month he promised with them to abide ; 
As blithe he trod the mountain-sward as they, 
And felt his joy make ev'n the young more gay. 
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour, fann'd 
By yon blue water's breath, — their walks how bland ' 

D 



56 THEODRIC 

Fair Julia seem'd her brother's soften'd sprite- - 

A gem reflecting Nature's purest light, — 

And with her graceful wit there was inwrought 

A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought, 

That almost child-like to his kindness drew, 

And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew. 

But did his thoughts to love one moment range ? — 

No! he who had loved Constance could not change ! 

Besides, till grief betray'd her undesign'd, 

Th' unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind, 

That eyes so young on years like his should beam 

Unwoo'd devotion back for pure esteem. 

True she sang to his very soul, and brought 
Those trains before him of luxuriant thought, 
Which only Music's Heaven-born art can bring, 
To sweep across the mind with angel wing. 
Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance, 
She paused, o'ercome : he thought it might be chance, 
And, when his first suspicions dimly stole, 
Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul. 
But when he saw his caution gave her pain, 
And kindness brought suspense's rack again, 
Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask 
Truths which her timid fondness fear'd to ask. 

And yet with gracefully ingenuous power 
Her spirit met th' explanatory hour ; — 
Ev'n conscious beauty brighten'd in her eyes, 
That told she knew their love no vulgar prize ; 
And pride, like that of one more woman-grown, 
Enlarged her mien, enrich'd her voice's tone. 
'Twas then she struck the keys, and music made 
That mock'd all skill her hand had e'er display'd. 



THEODRIC. 57 

Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around, 

She look'd the very Muse of magic sound, 

Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe, 

Until the mind's eye saw them melt and glow. 

Her closing strain composed and calm she play'd, 

And sang no words to give its pathos aid ; 

But grief seem'd lingering in its lengthen'd swell, 

And like so many tears the trickling touches fell. 

Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak, 

And steadfast smoothness still possess'd her cheek. 

But when he told her how he oft had plann'd 

Of old a journey to their mountain-land, 

That might have brought him hither years before, 

'Ah ! then/ she cried, ' you knew not England's shore ; 

And had you come, — and wherefore did you not V 

' Yes,' he replied, 'it would have changed our lot!' 

Then burst her tears through pride's restraining bands, 

And with her handkerchief, and both her hands, 

She hid her voice and wept. — Contrition stung 

Theodric for the tears his words had wrung. 

' But no,' she cried, ' unsay not what you've said, 

Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stay'd ; 

To think I could have merited your faith 

Shall be my solace even unto death !' 

' Julia,' Theodric said, with purposed look 

Of firmness, ' my reply deserved rebuke ; 

But by your pure and sacred peace of mind, 

And by the dignity of womankind, 

Swear that when I am gone you'll do your best 

To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.' 

Th' abrupt appeal electrified her thought ; — 
She look'd to Heav'n as if its aid she sought, 



58 THEODRIC. 

Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek, 
And signified the vow she could not speak. 

Ere long he communed with her mother mild : 
' Alas !' she said, ' I warn'd — conjured my child, 
And grieved for this affection from the first, 
But like fatality it has been nursed ; 
For when her fill'd eyes on your picture fix'd, 
And when your name in all she spoke was mix'd, 
'Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind! 
Then each attempt a likelier choice to find 
Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve, 
And Udolph's pride — perhaps her own — believe 
That, could she meet, she might enchant ev'n you. 
You came. — I augur'd the event, 'tis true, 
But how was Udolph's mother to exclude 
The guest that claim'd our boundless gratitude ? 
And that unconscious you had cast a spell 
On Julia's peace, my pride refused to tell : 
Yet in my child's illusion I have seen, 
Believe me well, how blameless you have been : 
Nor can it cancel, howso'er it end, 
Our debt of friendship to our boy's best friend.' 
At night he parted with the agecf pair; 
At early morn rose Julia to prepare 
The last repast her hands for him should make : 
And Udolph to convoy him o'er the lake. 
The parting was to her such bitter grief, 
That of her own accord she made it brief; 
But, lingering at her window, long survey'd 
His boat's last glimpses melting into shade. 

Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved 
His journey's object. Much was he relieved 



THEODRIC. 59 

When Udolph's letters told that Julia's mind 
Had borne his loss, firm, tranquil, and resign'd. 
He took the Rhenish route to England, high 
Elate with hopes, fulfill'd their ecstasy, 
And interchanged with Constance's own breath 
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith. 

To paint that being to a grovelling mind 
Were like portraying pictures to the blind. 
'T was needful ev'n infectiously to feel 
Her temper's fond and firm and gladsome zeal, 
To share existence with her, and to gain 
Sparks from her love's electrifying chain 
Of that pure pride, which, lessening to her breast 
Life's ills, gave all its joys a treble zest, 
Before the mind completely understood 
That mighty truth — how happy are the good ! 

Ev'n when her light forsook him, it bequeathed 
Ennobling sorrow ; and her memory breathed 
A sweetness that survived her living days, 
As odorous scents outlast the censer's blaze. 

Or, if a trouble dimm'd their golden joy, 
'T was outward dross, and not infused alloy : 
Their home knew but affection's looks and speech — 
A little Heaven, above dissension's reach. 
But 'midst her kindred there was strife and gall ; 
Save one congenial sister, they were all 
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace, 
As if she had engross'd the virtue of her race. 
Her nature strove th' unnatural feuds to heal, 
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal ; 
And, tho' the wounds she cured were soon unclosed. 
Unwearied still her kindness interposed. 



60 THEODRIC 

Oft on those errands though she went in vain, 
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain, 
He bore her absence for its pious end. — 
But public grief his spirit came to bend ; 
For war laid waste his native land once more, 
And German honour bled at every pore. 
Oh ! were he there, he thought, to rally back 
One broken band, or perish in the wrack ! 
Nor think that Constance sought to move and melt 
His purpose : like herself she spoke and felt : — 
' Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe 
Except its loss ! — but with you let me go 
To arm you for, to embrace you from, the fight ; 
Harm will not reach me — hazards will delight !' 
He knew those hazards better ; one campaign 
In England he conjured her to remain, 
And she express'd assent, although her heart 
In secret had resolved they should not part. 

How oft the wisest on misfortune's shelves 
Are wreck'd by errors most unlike themselves ! 
That little fault, that fraud of love's romance, [chance. 
That plan's concealment, wrought their whole mis- 
He knew it not preparing to embark, 
But felt extinct his comfort's latest spark, 
When, 'midst those number'd days, she made repair 
Again to kindred worthless of her care. 
'Tis true she said the tidings she would write 
Would make her absence on his heart sit light; 
But, haplessly, reveal'd not yet her plan, 
And left him in his home a lonely man. 

Thus damp'd in thoughts, he mused upon the past : 
'Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last, 



THEODRIC. 61 

And deep misgivings on his spirit fell 

That all with Udolph's household was not well. 

'T was that too true prophetic mood of fear 

That augurs griefs inevitably near, 

Yet makes them not less startling to the mind 

"When come. Least look'd-for then of human kind. 

His Udolph ('t was, he thought at first, his sprite,) 

With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight. 

How changed was Udolph ! Scarce Theodric durst 

Inquire his tidings, — he reveal'd the worst. 

• At first/ he said, ' as Julia bade me tell, 

She bore her fate high-mindedly and well, 

Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide, 

And from the world's compassion saved our pride ; 

But still her health gave way to secret woe, 

And long she pined — for broken hearts die slow ! 

Her reason went, but came returning, like 

The warning of her death-hour — soon to strike ; 

And all for which she now, poor sufferer ! sighs, 

Is once to see Theodric ere she dies. 

Why should I come to tell you this caprice ? 

Forgive me ! for my mind has lost its peace. 

I blame myself, and ne'er shall cease to blame, 

That my insane ambition for the name 

Of brother to Theodric, founded all 

Those high-built hopes that crush'd her by their fall. 

I made her slight her mother's counsel sage, 

But now my parents droop with grief and age : 

And, though my sister's eyes mean no rebuke, 

They overwhelm me with their dying look. 

The journey 's long, but you are full of ruth ; 

And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth, 



62 THEODRIC. 

Has faith in your affection, far above 

The fear of a poor dying object's love.' — 

' She has, my Udolph,' he replied, ' 't is true ; 

And oft we talk of Julia — oft of you.' 

Their converse came abruptly to a close ; 

For scarce could each his troubled looks compose, 

When visitants, to Constance near akin, 

(In all but traits of soul,) were usher'd in. 

They brought not her, nor midst their kindred band 

The sister who alone, like her, was bland ; 

But said — and smiled to see it gave him pain — 

That Constance would a fortnight yet remain. 

Vex'd by their tidings, and the haughty view 

They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew, 

Theodric blamed his Constance's intent. — 

The demons went, and left him as they went 

To read, when they were gone beyond recal, 

A note from her loved hand explaining all. 

She said, that with their house she only staid 

That parting peace might with them all be made ; 

But pray'd for love to share his foreign life, 

And shun all future chance of kindred strife. 

He wrote with speed, his soul's consent to say : 

The letter miss'd her on her homeward way. 

In six hours Constance was within his arms : 

Moved, flush'd, unlike her wonted calm of charms, 

And breathless — with uplifted hands outspread — 

Burst into tears upon his neck, and said, — 

' I knew, that those who brought your message laugh'd, 

With poison of their own to point the shaft ; 

And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth 

Confess'd she fear'd 'twas true you had been wroth 



THEODRIC. 63 

But here you are, and smile on me : my pain 

Is gone, and Constance is herself again.' 

His ecstasy, it may be guess'd, was much : 

Yet pain's extreme and pleasure's seem'd to touch. 

What pride ! embracing beauty's perfect mould; 

What terror ! lest his few rash words mistold 

Had agonised her pulse to fever's heat : 

But calm'd again so soon it healthful beat, 

And such sweet tones were in her voices sound, 

Composed herself, she breathed composure round. 

Fair being ! with what sympathetic grace 
She heard, bewail'd, and pleaded Julia's case ; 
Implored he would her dying wish attend, 
' And go,' she said, ' to-morrow with your friend ; 
I'll wait for your return on England's shore, 
And then we'll cross the deep, and part no more.' 

To-morrow both his soul's compassion drew 
To Julia's call, and Constance urged anew 
That not to heed her now would be to bind 
A load of pain for life upon his mind. 
He went with Udolph — from his Constance went — 
Stifling, alas! a dark presentiment 
Some ailment lurk'd, ev'n whilst she smiled, to mock 
His fears of harm from yester-morning's shock. 
Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out, 
To watch at home, and follow straight his route, 
If aught of threaten'd change her health should show. 
— With Udolph then he reach'd the house of woe. 

That winter's eve, how darkly Nature's brow 
Scowl'd on the scenes it lights so lovely now ! 
The tempest, raging o'er the realms of ice, 
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice ; 
6 



64 THEODRIC. 

And, whilst their falling echoed to the wind, 
The wolf's long howl in dismal discord join'd ; 
While white yon water's foam was raised in clouds 
That whirl'd like spirits wailing in their shrouds: 
Without was Nature's elemental din — 
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within! 

Sweet Julia, though her fate was finish'd half, 
Still knew him — smiled on him with feeble laugh — 
And bless'd him, till she drew her latest sigh ! 
But lo ! while Udolph's bursts of agony, 
And age's tremulous wailings, round him rose, 
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those ! 
'T was tidings by his English messenger, 
Of Constance — brief and terrible they were. 
She still was living when the page set out 
From home, but whether now was left in doubt. 
Poor Julia ! saw he then thy death's relief — 
Stunn'd into stupor more than wrung with grief? 
It was not strange ; for in the human breast 
Two master-passions cannot co-exist, 
And that alarm which now usurp'd his brain 
Shut out not only peace, but other pain, 
'Tvvas fancying Constance underneath the shroud 
That cover'd Julia made him first weep loud, 
And tear himself away from them that wept. 
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept, 
Till, launch'd at sea, he dreamt that his soul's saint 
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint 
O'er cataracts of blood. Awake, he bless'd 
The shore ; nor hope left utterly his breast, 
Till reaching home, terrific omen! there 
The straw-laid street preluded his despair — 



THEUKRIC. 65 

The servant's look — the table that reveal'd 

His letter sent to Constance last, still seal'd — 

Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear 

That he had now to suffer — not to fear. 

He felt as if he ne'er should cease to feel — 

A wretch live-broken on misfortune's wheel : 

Her death's cause — he might make his peace wit ti 

Heaven, 
Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven. 
The ocean has its ebbings — so has grief; 
'Twas vent to anguish, if 'twas not relief, 
To lay his brow ev'n on her death-cold cheek. 
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak : 
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear 
With self-reproach to deepen his despair : 
1 'Twas blame,' she said, 'I shudder to relate, 
But none of yours, that caused our darling's fate ; 
Her mother (must I call her such ?) foresaw, 
Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw 
Our House's charm against the world's neglect — 
The only gem that drew it some respect. 
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke 
To change her purpose — grew incensed, and broke 
With execrations from her kneeling child. 
Start not ! your angel from her knee rose mild, 
Fear'd that she should not long the scene outlive, 
Yet bade ev'n you th' unnatural one forgive. 
Till then her ailment had been slight, or none ; 
But fast she droop'd, and fatal pains came on : 
Foreseeing their event, she dictated 
And sign'd these' words for you.' The letter said — 
9 F 2 



66 THEODRIC. 

'Theodric, this is destiny above 
Our power to baffle ; bear it then, my love ! 
Rave not to learn the usage I have borne, 
For one true sister left me not forlorn ; 
And though you're absent in another land, 
Sent from me by my own well-meant command, 
Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mine 
As these clasp'd hands in blessing you now join : 
Shape not imagined horrors in my fate — 
Ev'n now my sufferings are not very great ; 
And when your grief's first transports shall subside 
I call upon your strength of soul and pride 
To pay my memory, if 'tis worth the debt, 
Love's glorying tribute — not forlorn regret : 
I charge my name with power to conjure up 
Reflection's balmy, not its bitter cup. 
My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven, 
Shall look not more regard than you have given 
To me; and our life's union has been clad 
In smiles of bliss as sweet as life e'er had. 
Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance 

cast? 
Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past? 
No ! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast, 
There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest ; 
And let contentment on your spirit shine, 
As if its peace were still a part of mine : 
For if you war not proudly with your pain, 
For you I shall have worse than lived in vain. 
But I conjure your manliness to bear 
My loss with noble spirit — not despair; 



THEODRIC. 67 

I ask you by our love to promise this, 

And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss, 

The latest from my living lips for yours/ — 

Words that will solace him while life endures : 
For though his spirit from affliction's surge 
Could ne'er to life, as life had been, emerge, 
Yet still that mind whose harmony elate 
Rang sweetness, ev'n beneath the crush of fate, — 
That mind in whose regard all things were placed 
In views that soften'd them, or lights that graced, 
That soul's example could not but dispense 
A portion of its own bless'd influence ; 
Invoking him to peace and that self-sway 
Which Fortune cannot give, nor take away : 
And though he mourn'd her long, 'twas with such woe 
As if her spirit watch'd him still below." 



TRANSLATIONS, 

ETC. ETC. 



MARTIAL ELEGY. 



FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTiEUS. 



How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, 

In front of battle for their native land ! 

But oh ! what ills await the wretch that yields, 

A recreant outcast from his country's fields ! 

The mother whom he loves shall quit her home, 

An aged father at his side shall roam ; 

His little ones shall weeping with him go, 

And a young wife participate his woe ; 

While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face, 

They pine for food, and beg from place to place. 

Stain of his breed ! dishonouring manhood's form, 
All ills shall cleave to him : — Affliction's storm 
Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, 
Till, lost to all but ignominious fears, 
He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name, 
And children, like himself, inured to shame. 

But we will combat for our father's land, 
And we will drain the life-blood where we stand, 



72 TRANSLATIONS. 

To save our children : — fight ye side by side, 
And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, 
Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost 
Of life itself in glorious battle lost. 

Leave not our sires to stem th' unequal fight, 
Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might ; 
Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast 
Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd) 
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, 
His hoary head dishevel'd in the dust, 
And venerable bosom bleeding bare. 

But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, 
And beautiful in death the boy appears, 
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years: 
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears, 
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, 
For having perish'd in the front of war. 



FRAGMENT. 

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN. 



The mountain summits sleep : glens, cliffs, and caves 
Are silent — all the black earth's reptile brood — 
The bees — the wild beasts of the mountain wood : 

In depths beneath the dark red ocean's waves 

Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and spray 
Each bird is hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to 
the day. 



TRANSLATIONS. 73 



SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN. 



My wealth's a burly spear and brand, 
And a right good shield of hides untann'd, 

Which on my arm I buckle : 
With these I plough, I reap, I sow, 
With these I make the sweet vintage flow, 

And all around me truckle. 

But your wights that take no pride to wield 
A massy spear and well-made shield, 

Nor joy to draw the sword : 
Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones, 
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones, 

To call me King and Lord. 



SPECIMENS OF TRANSLATIONS FROM MEDEA. 



2xaiou£ Ss "ksyuv, xovSev <n (focpovg 
Tou£ irpotfds /3porou£ ovx. av afxaproig'. 

Medea, v. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit 

Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime 

First charm'd the ear of youthful Time, 

With numbers wrapt in heavenly fire, 

Who bade delighted Echo swell 

The trembling transports of the lyre, 

The murmur of the shell — 
10 G 



74 TRANSLATIONS. 

Why to the burst of Joy alone 
Accords sweet Music's soothing tone ? 
Why can no bard, with magic strain, 
In slumbers steep the heart of pain ? 
While varied tones obey your sweep, 
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep, 
Bends not despairing Grief to hear 
Your golden lute, with ravish'd ear ? 
Has all your art no power to bind 
The fiercer pangs that shake the mind, 
And lull the wrath at whose command 
Murder bares her gory hand ? 
When flush'd with joy, the rosy throng 
Weave the light dance, ye swell the song ! 
Cease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm ! 
The breast with other raptures warm ! 
Cease ! till your hands with magic strain 
In slumbers steep the heart of pain ! 



SPEECH OF THE CHORUS, 

IN THE SAME TRAGEDY, 

TO DISSUADE MEDEA FROM HER PURPOSE OF PUTTING HER CHILDREN TO DEATH 
AND FLYING FOR PROTECTION TO ATHENS 



O haggard queen ! to Athens dost thou guide 
Thy glowing chariot, steep'd in kindred gore ; 

Or seek to hide thy foul infanticide 

Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore ? 



TRANSLATIONS. 75 

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime, 
Woos the deep silence of sequester'd bowers, 

And warriors, matchless since the first of time, 

Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers ! 

Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain, 
Twines in the dance with nymphs for ever fair, 

While Spring eternal on the lilied plain 

Waves amber radiance through the fields of air ! 

The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) 

First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among ; 

Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell ; 
Still in your vales they swell the choral song ! 

But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, 

The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now 

Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair 
Waved in high auburn o'er her polish'd brow ! 

ANTISTROPHE I. 

Where silent vales, and glades of green array, 
The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, 

There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, 
The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave ; 

And bless'd the stream, and breathed across the land 
The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers ; 

And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, 

Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers f 



76 TRANSLATIONS. 

" And go," she cries, " in yonder valleys rove, 
With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume ; 

Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, 

Breathe on each cheek young Passion's lender bloom ! 

Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft controul, 
To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind ! 

With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul, 
And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind." 

STROPHE II. 

The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play, 
Where friendship binds the generous and the good, 

Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, 
Unholy woman ! with thy hands embrued 

In thine own children's gore ? Oh ! ere they bleed, 
Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal ! 

Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed — 

The mother strikes — the guiltless babes shall fall ! 

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, 
When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear ! 

Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring 
The screams of horror in thy tortured ear ? 

No ! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry, — 

In dust we kneel — by sacred Heaven implore — 

O ! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, 
Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore ! 



TRANSLATIONS. 



ANTISTROPIIE II. 



Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, 
Undamp'd by horror at the daring plan ? 

Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom ? 
Or hands to finish what thy wrath began ? 

When o'er each babe you look a last adieu, 
And gaze on innocence that smiles asleep, 

Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true, 

Charm thee to pensive thought — and bid thee weep 1 

When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, 
Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer, — 

Ay ! thou shalt melt ; — and many a heart-shed tear 
Gush o'er the harden'd features of despair ! 

Nature shall throb in every tender string, — 
Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny; — 

Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling 

The blade, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye. 

CHORUS. 

Hallow'd Earth ! with indignation 
Mark, oh mark, the murderous deed ! 

Radiant eye of wide creation, 
Watch th' accurs'd infanticide ! 

Yet, ere Colchia's rugged daughter 

Perpetrate the dire design, 

And consign to kindred slaughter 

Children of thy golden line ! 
g2 



78 TRANSLATIONS. 

Shall mortal hand, with murder gory, 
Cause immortal blood to flow ! 

Sun of Heaven ! — array'd in glory 
Rise, forbid, avert the blow ! 

In the vales of placid gladness 
Let no rueful maniac range ; 

Chase afar the fiend of Madness, 
Wrest the dagger from Revenge ! 

Say, hast thou, with kind protection, 
Rear'd thy smiling race in vain ; 

Fostering Nature's fond affection, 
Tender cares, and pleasing pain ? 

Hast thou, on the troubled ocean, 
Braved the tempest loud and strong, 

Where the waves, in wild commotion, 
Roar Cyanean rocks among? 

Didst thou roam the paths of danger, 
Hymenean joys to prove ? 

Spare, O sanguinary stranger, 
Pledges of thy sacred love ! 

Ask not Heaven's commiseration, 
After thou hast done the deed ; 

Mercy, pardon, expiation, 

Perish when thy victims bleed. 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD; 

OB, 
1 THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING." 



Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail 

Was strung full high to notes of gladness; 

But yet it often told a tale 

Of more prevailing sadness. 

Sad was the note, and wild its fall, 

As winds that moan at night forlorn 

Along the isles of Fion-Gall, 

When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, 

The harper told, how lone, how far 

From any mansion's twinkling star, 

From any path of social men, 

Or voice, but from the fox's den, 

The lady in the desert dwelt ; 

And yet no wrongs, no fears she felt : 

Say, why should dwell in place so wild, 

O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 



ii. 



Sweet lady ! she no more inspires 
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power, 
As, in the palace of her sires, 
She bloom'd a peerless flower. 
7 



SO O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

Gone from her hand and bosom, gone, 
The royal broche, the jewell'd ring, 
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone, 
Like dews on lilies of the spring. 
Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne, 
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, 
While yet in Leinster unexplored, 
Her friends survive the English sword ; 
Why lingers she from Erin's host, 
So far on Gal way's shipwreck'd coast; 
Why wanders she a huntress wild — 
O'Connor's pale and lovely child ? 

in. 

And fix'd on empty space, why burn 

Her eyes with momentary wildness ; 

And wherefore do they then return 

To more than woman's mildness ? 

Dishevel'd are her raven locks ; 

On Connocht Moran's name she calls : 

And oft amidst the lonely rocks 

She sings sweet madrigals. 

Placed 'midst the fox-glove and the moss, 

Behold a parted warrior's cross ! 

That is the spot where, evermore, 

The lady, at her shieling door, 

Enjoys that, in communion sweet, 

The living and the dead can meet, 

For, lo ! to love-lorn fantasy, 

The hero of her heart is nigh. 




' Placed 'midst the fox-glove and the moss, 
Behold a parted warrior's cross ! 
That is the spot where, evermore, 
The lady, at her shieling door, 
Enjoys that, in communion sweet, 
The living and the dead oan meet." 



p. 80. 



O'CONNOR'S CHILI). 81 



IV. 



Bright as the bow that spans the storm, 

In Erin's yellow vesture clad, 

A son of light — a lovely form, 

He comes and makes her glad ; 

Now on the grass-green turf he sits, 

His tassell'd horn beside him laid; 

Now o'er the hills in chase he flits, 

The hunter and the deer a shade ! 

Sweet mourner ! these are shadows vain 

That cross the twilight of her brain ; 

Yet she will tell you, she is bless'd, 

Of Connocht Moran's tomb possess'd, 

More richly than in Aghrim's bower, 

When bards high praised her beauty's power, 

And kneeling pages offer'd up 

The morat in a golden cup. 

v. 

' ( A hero's bride ! this desert bower, 

It ill befits thy gentle breeding : 

And wherefore dost thou love this flower 

To call — ' My love lies bleeding V 

This purple flower my tears have nursed ; 

A hero's blood supplied its bloom: 

I love it, for it was the first 

That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. 

Oh ! hearken, stranger, to my voice ! 

This desert mansion is my choice ! 

And blest, though fatal, be the star 

That led me to its wilds afar : 



82 O'CONNOR'S CHILD 

For here these pathless mountains fre<? 
Gave shelter to my love and me : 
And every rock and every stone 
Bore witness that he was my own. 

VI. 

O'Connor's child, I was the bud 
Of Erin's royal tree of glory ; 
But woe to them that wrapt in blood 
The tissue of my story ! 
Still as I clasp my burning brain, 
A death-scene rushes on my sight ; 
It rises o'er and o'er again, 
The bloody feud — the fatal night, 
When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn, 
They call'd my hero basely born ; 
And bade him choose a meaner bride 
Than from O'Connor's house of pride. 
Their tribe, they said, their high degree, 
Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; 
Witness their Eath's victorious brand, 
And Cathal of the bloody hand ; 
Glory (they said) and power and honour 
Were in the mansion of O'Connor : 
But he, my loved one, bore in field 
A humbler crest, a meaner shield. 

VII. 

Ah, brothers ! what did it avail, 
That fiercely and triumphantly 
Ye fought the English of the Pale, 
And stemm'd De Bourgo's chivalry 1 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD S3 

And what was it to love and me, 
That barons by your standard rode ; 
Or beal-fires for your jubilee 
Upon a hundred mountains glow'd ? 
What though the lords of tower and dome 
From Shannon to the North-sea foam, — 
Thought ye your iron hands of pride 
Could break the knot that love had tied ? 
No : — let the eagle change his plume, 
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ; 
But ties around this heart were spun, 
That could not, would not, be undone ! 



VIII. 



At bleating of the wild watch-fold 
Thus sang my love — ' Oh, come with me : 
Our bark is on the lake, behold 
Our steeds are fasten'd to the tree. 
Come far from Castle-Connor's clans : — 
Come with thy belted forestere, 
And I, beside the lake of swans, 
Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer; 
And build thy hut, and bring thee home 
The wild-fowl and the honey-comb ; 
And berries from the wood provide, 
And play my clarshech by thy side. 
Then come, my love !' — How could I stay 
Our nimble stag-hounds track'd the way, 
And I pursued, by moonless skies, 
The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. 



34 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 



IX. 



And fast and far, before the star 

Of day-spring, rush'd we through the glade, 

And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 

Of Castle-Connor fade. 

Sweet was to us the hermitage 

Of this unplough'd, untrodden shore; 

Like birds all joyous from the cage, 

For man's neglect we loved it more, 

And well he knew, my huntsman dear, 

To search the game with hawk and spear; 

While I, his evening food to dress, 

Would sing to him in happiness. 

But, oh, that midnight of despair! 

When I was doom'd to rend my hair: 

The night, to me, of shrieking sorrow ! 

The night, to him, that had no morrow ! 

x. 

When all was hush'd, at even tide, 
I heard the baying of their beagle : 
Be hush'd ! my Connocht Moran cried, 
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle. 
Alas ! 't was not the eyrie's sound ; 
Their bloody bands had track'd us out ; 
Up-listening starts our couchant hound — 
And hark ! again, that nearer shout 
Brings faster on the murderers. 
Spare — spare him — Brazil — Desmond fierce ! 
In vain — no voice the adder charms ; 
Their weapons cross'd my sheltering arms : 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 85 

Another's sword has laid him low — 

Another's and another's ; 

And every hand that dealt the blow — 

Ah me ! it was a brother's ! 

Yes, when his moanings died away 

Their iron hands had dug the clay, 

And o'er his burial turf they trod, 

And I behold !— oh God ! oh God !— 

His life-blood oozing from the sod ! 

XI. 

Warm in his death-wounds sepulchred, 
Alas! my warrior's spirit brave 
Nor mass nor ulla-lulla heard, 
Lamenting, soothe his grave. 
Dragg'd to their hated mansion back, 
How long in thraldom's grasp I lay 
I knew not, for my soul was black, 
And knew no change of night or day. 
One night of horror round me grew ; 
Or if I saw, or felt, or knew, 
'T was but when those grim visages, 
The angry brothers of my race, 
Glared on each eye-ball's aching throb, 
And check'd my bosom's power to sob, 
Or when my heart with pulses drear 
Beat like a death-watch to my ear. 



XII. 



But Heaven, at last, my soul's eclipse 
Did with a vision bright inspire ; 

E2 



86 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

I woke and felt upon my lips 
A prophetess's fire. 
Thrice in the east a war-drum beat, 
I heard the Saxon's trumpet sound, 
And ranged, as to the judgment-seat, 
My guilty, trembling brothers round. 
Clad in the helm and shield they came ; 
For now De Bourgo's sword and flame 
Had ravaged Ulster's boundaries, 
And lighted up the midnight skies. 
The standard of O'Connor's sway 
Was in the turret where I lay ; 
That standard, with so dire a look, 
As ghastly shone the moon and pale, 
I gave, — that every bosom shook 
Beneath its iron mail. 

XIII. 

And go ! (I cried) the combat seek, 
Ye hearts that unappalled bore 
The anguish of a sister's shriek, 
Go ! — and return no more ! 
For sooner guilt the ordeal-brand 
Shall grasp unhurt, than ye shall hold 
The banner with victorious hand, 
Beneath a sister's curse unroll'd. 

stranger ! by my country's loss ! 
And by my love ! and by the cross ! 

1 swear I never could have spoke 
The curse that server'd nature's yoke ; 
But that a spirit o'er me stood, 

And fired me with the wrathful mood ; 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD SI 



And frenzy to my heart was given 
To speak the malison of heaven. 



XIV. 



They would have cross'd themselves, all mute ; 

They would have pray'd to burst the spell ; 

But at the stamping of my foot 

Each hand down powerless fell ! 

And go to Athunree ! (I cried) 

High lift the banner of your pride ! 

But know that wiiere its sheet unrolls, 

The weight of blood is on your souls ! 

Go where the havoc of your kerne 

Shall float as high as mountain fern ! 

Men shall no more your mansion know ; 

The nettles on your hearth shall grow ! 

Dead, as the green oblivious flood 

That mantles by your walls, shall be 

The glory of O'Connor's blood ! 

Away ! away to Athunree ! 

Where, downward when the sun shall fall, 

The raven's wing shall be your pall ! 

And not a vassal shall unlace 

The vizor from your dying face ! 



XV. 



A bolt that overhung our dome 
Suspended till my curse was given, 
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam, 
Peal'd in the blood-red heaven. 



88 O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

Dire was the look that o'er their backs 
The angry parting brothers threw : 
But now, behold ! like cataracts, 
Come down the hills in view 
O'Connor's plumed partizans ; 
Thrice ten Kilnagorvian clans 
Were marching to their doom : 
A sudden storm their plumage toss'd, 
A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd, 
And all again was gloom ! 

XVI. 

Stranger ! I fled the home of grief, 
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall ; 
I found the helmet of my chief, 
His bow still hanging on our wall, 
And took it down, and vow'd to rove 
This desert place a huntress bold ; 
Nor would I change my buried love 
For any heart of living mould. 
No ! for I am a hero's child ; 
I'll hunt my quarry in the wild ; 
And still my home this mansion make, 
Of all unheeded and unheeding, 
And cherish, for my warrior's sake — 
' The flower of love lies bleeding.' " 




fi^^f^ 



" Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight." 

/ p. 89. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 

Wizard. — Lochiel. 



Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight. 
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; 
Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, 
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; 
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
W T eep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. 



Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ! 
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 



90 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



WIZARD. 



Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn 1 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! 
Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north 1 
Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 
Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 
Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, 
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. 



False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan, 
Their swords are a thousand,' their bosoms are one ! 
They are true to the last of their blood and the r 

breath, 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! 
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ' 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 91 



When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array 



WIZARD. 



Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would reveal; 

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 

With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 

Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 

Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight : 

Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 

'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors: 

Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? 

Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 

The war-drum is muffled and black is the bier ; 

His death-bell is tolling : oh ! Mercy, dispel 

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 

Accursed be the faggots, that blaze at his feet, 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale 

8 



92 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : 



For never shall Albin a destiny meet, 

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. 

Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in theii 

gore, 
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, 
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! 
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



A NAVAL ODE. 



Ye Mariners of England ! 

That guard our native seas ; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Y^our glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe ! 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow ; 

While the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 




< Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet, 

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat." 



p. 92. 



YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 



93 



ii. 



The spirit of your fathers 
Shall start from every wave !— 
For the deck it was their field of fame, 
And Ocean was their grave : 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 
As ye sweep through the deep, 
While the stormy winds do blow ; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 



in. 



Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep : 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow ; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormy winds do blow. 



IV. 



The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn; 
Till danger's troubled night depart, 
And the star of peace return. 



94 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 



Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. — 

ii. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. — 




" Their shots along the deep slowly boom ! 
Then ceased — and all is wail, 
As they strike the shatter'd sail ; 
Or, in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom." 



p.9& 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 9*3 

s 

III. 

But the might of England flush'd 

To anticipate the scene; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between. 

1 Hearts of oak !' our captain cried ; when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

IV. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'^ sail ; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. — 

v. 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave; 

' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 

So peace instead of death let us bring ; 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King.' — 



96 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

VI. 

Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose ; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As Death withdrew his shades from the day. 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

VII. 

Now joy, old England, raise ! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep, 
Full many a fathom deep, 
By thy wild and Stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

VIII. 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died ; — 

With the gallant good Riou:* 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid's song condoles, 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! — 

* Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, hy Lord Nelson, 
when he wrote home his despatches. 




' On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly." 



p. 87 



HOHENLINDEN. 



On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay th 5 untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven 
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
"Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 



98 GLENARA. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
And every tuft beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



GLENARA. 



O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, 
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; 
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. 

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; 
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud : 
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around : 
They march'd all in silence, — they look'd on the 
ground. 

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, 
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar • 
" Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn : 
Why speak ye no word!" — said Glenara the stern. 

" And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse, 
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ?" 



EXILE OF ERIN. 99 

So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made, 
But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd. 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud ; 
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" 

O ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, 
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen , 
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn. 
'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn •. 

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: 
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem ; 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" 

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, 
And the desert reveaPd where his lady was found ; 
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!" 



EXILE OF ERIN. 



There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : 

For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 



100 EXILE OF ERIN. 

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, 
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 

Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; 

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, 
But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 

A home and a country remain not to me. 
Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet 

hours, 
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, 

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! 

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 

But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! 

Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ? 

Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ? 

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ? 

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? 
Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandon'd by pleasure, 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, 

But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. 




' A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 

Cries, ' Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 

To row us o'er the ferry.' " p. xoi. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 101 

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 

Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 

Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean ! 

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,— 
Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh!* 

* Ireland my darling, Ireland forever. 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 



A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 

And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." — 

" Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water ?" 

" O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this Lord Ullin's daughter. — 

And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together, 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover ?" — 



102 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
" I'll go, my chief — I'm ready : — 

It is not for your silver bright; 
But for your winsome lady : 

And by my w r ord ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So though the w r aves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." — 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking ; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men, 
Their trampling sounded nearer. — 

" O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
" Though tempests round us gather ; 

I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." — 

The boat has left a stormy land, 
A stormy sea before her, — 

When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 
The tempest gather'd o'er her. — 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing : 

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 



w 




1 For sore dismay : d, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover : — 
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
And one was round her lover." p- 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS 101 

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover : — 
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

" Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 

" Across this stormy water : 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter! — oh my daughter!" — 

'Twas vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore, 

Return or aid preventing : — 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 



ODE 

TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 



Soul of the Poet ! wheresoe'er, 
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume 
Her w T ings of immortality : 
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, 
And with thine influence illume 
The gladness of our jubilee. 

And fly like fiends from secret spell, 
Discord and Strife, at Burns's name, 
Exorcised by his memory ; 
For he was chief of bards that swell 
The heart with songs of social flame, 
And high delicious revelry. 



104 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

And Love's own strain to him was given, 

To warble all its ecstasies 

With Pythian words unsought, unwill'd, — 

Love, the surviving gift of Heaven, 

The choicest sweet of Paradise, 

In life's else bitter cup distill'd. 

Who that has melted o'er his lay 
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above, 
But pictured sees, in fancy strong, 
The landscape and the livelong day 
That smiled upon their mutual love ? — 
Who that has felt forgets the song I 

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan : 

His country's high-soul'd peasantry 

What patriot-pride he taught! — how much 

To weigh the inborn worth of man ! 

And rustic life and poverty 

Grow beautiful beneath his touch. 

Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse 
Entranced, and show'd him all the forms 
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, 
(That only gifted Poet views,) 
The Genii of the floods and storms, 
And martial shades from Glory's tomb. 

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse 
The swain whom Burns's song inspires ; 
Beat not his Caledonian veins, 
As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 105 

With all the spirit of his sires, 

And all their scorn of death and chains ? 

And see the Scottish exile, tann'd 

By many a far and foreign clime, 

Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep 

In memory of his native land, 

With love that scorns the lapse of time, 

And ties that stretch beyond the deep. 

Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild, 

The soldier resting on his arms, 

In Burns's carol sweet recals 

The scenes that bless'd him when a child, 

And glows and gladdens at the charms 

Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. 

O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife, 

An idle art the Poet brings : 

Let high Philosophy control, 

And sages calm, the stream of life, 

'Tis he refines its fountain-springs, 

The nobler passions of the soul. 

It is the Muse that consecrates 
The native banner of the brave, 
Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath, 
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates 
To sweep the field or ride the wave, 
A sunburst in the storm of death. 

And thou, young hero, when thy pall 

Is cross'd with mournful sword and plume, 



106 ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

When public grief begins to fade, 
And only tears of kindred fall, 
Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, 
And greet with fame thy gallant shade ? 

Such was the soldier. — Burns, forgive 

That sorrows of mine own intrude 

In strains to thy great memory due. 

In verse like thine, oh ! could he live, 

The friend I mourn'd — the brave — the good — 

Edward that died at Waterloo!* 

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song ! 
That couldst alternately impart 
Wisdom and rapture in thy page, 
< And brand each vice with satire strong ; 
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, 
Whose truths electrify the sage. 

Farewell ! and ne'er may Envy dare 
To wring one baleful poison drop 
From the crush'd laurels of thy bust * 
But while the lark sings sweet in air, 
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, 
To bless the spot that holds thy dust. 

* Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron 
in the attack of the Polish Lancers. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE. 



At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour 

I have mused, in a sorrowful mood, 
On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bovver 

Where the home of my forefathers stood : 
All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode, 

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree ; 
And travell'd by few is the grass-cover'd road, 
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode, 

To his hills that encircle the sea. 

Yet wandering I found on my ruinous walk, 

By the dial-stone aged and green, 
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 

To mark where a garden had been. 
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 

All wild in the silence of nature, it drew, 
From each wandering sun-beam, a lonely embrace, 
For the night-weed and thorn overshadow'd the place 

Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 

Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all 

That remains in this desolate heart ! 
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 

But patience shall never depart ! 
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, 

In the days of delusion by fancy combined 
With the vanishing phantoms of love and delight, 
Abandon my soul, like a dream of the night, 

And leave but a desert behind. 



108 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 

Be hush'd, my dark spirit ! for wisdom condemns 
^^ When the faint and the feeble deplore ; 
Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems 

A thousand wild waves on the shore ! 
Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain. 

May thy front be unalter'd, thy courage elate ! 
Yea! even the name I have worshipp'd in vain 
Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again: 

To bear is to conquer our fate. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 



Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpovver'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain ; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : 

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young • 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 







' Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd, 

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die." 

p. 108. 







" The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
The Earth with age was wan, 
The skeletons of nations were 
Around that lonely man !" 



p 109. 



THE LAST MAN. 109 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never to 
part; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ! 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, 

And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 



THE LAST MAN. 



All worldly shapes snail melt in gloom, 

The Sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep, 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of Time ! 
I saw the last of human mould 
That shall Creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
The Earth with age was wan, 

The skeletons of nations were 
Around that lonely man ! 

Some had expired in fight. — the brands 

Still rusted in their bony hands ; 
10 



110 THE LAST MAN. 

In plague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

With dauntless words and high, 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood 

As if a storm pass'd by, 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'Tis Mercy bids thee go: 
For thou ten thousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears, 

That shall no longer flow. 

What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, 

The vassals of his will ; — 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim discrowned king of day : 

For all those tropin ed arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, 
Heal'd not a passion or a pang 

Entail'd on human hearts. 

Go, let Oblivion's curtain fall 

Upon the stage of men, 
Nor with thy rising beams recal 

Life's tragedy again. 



THE LAST MAN. Ill 

Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
Or mown in battle by the sword, 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Ev'n I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sumless agonies, 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — 
The majesty of Darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to him 

Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 

By Him recall'd to breath, 
Who captive led Captivity, 
Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — 

And took the sting from Death ! 



J o 



Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
On Nature's awful waste 

To drink this last and bitter cup 
Of grief that man shall taste — 



112 A DREAM. 

Go, tell the Night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On Earth's sepulchral clod, 
The darkening universe defy- 
To quench his immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



A DREAM. 



Well may sleep present us fictions, 

Since our waking moments teem 
With such fanciful convictions 

As make life itself a dream. — 
Half our daylight faith's a fable ; 

Sleep disports with shadows too, 
Seeming in their turn as stable 

As the world we wake to view. 
Ne'er by day did Reason's mint 
Give my thoughts a clearer print 
Of assured reality, 
Than was left by Phantasy 
Stamp'd and colour'd on my sprite, 
In a dream of yesternight. 

In a bark, methought, lone steering, 
I was cast on Ocean's strife ; 

This, 'twas whispered in my hearing, 
Meant the sea of life. 



A DREAM. H3 

Sad regrets from past existence 

Came, like gales of chilling breath ; 

Shadow'd in the forward distance 
Lay the land of Death. 

Now seeming more, now less remote, 

On that dim-seen shore, methought, 

I beheld two hands a space 

Slow unshroud a spectre's face ; 

And my flesh's hair upstood, — 

'Twas mine own similitude. — 

But my soul revived at seeing 

Ocean, like an emerald spark, 
Kindle, while an air-dropt being 

Smiling steer'd my bark. 
Heaven-like — yet he look'd as human 

As supernal beauty can, 
More compassionate than woman, 

Lordly more than man. 
And as some sweet clarion's breath 
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death — 
So his accents bade me brook 
The spectre's eyes of icy look, 
Till it shut them — turn'd its head, 
Like a beaten foe, and fled. 

" Types not this," I said, " fair Spirit, 

That my death-hour is not come ? 
Say, what days shall I inherit 1 — 

Tell my soul their sum." 
" No," he said, " yon phantom's aspect, 

Trust me, would appal thee worse 



114 A DREAM. 

Held in clearly measured prospect: — 

Ask not for a curse ! 
Make not, for I overhear 
Thine unspoken thoughts as clear 
As thy mortal ear could catch 
The close-brought tickings of a watch — 
Make not the untold request 
That 's now revolving in thy breast. 

'Tis to live again, remeasuring 

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed, 
In thy second life-time treasuring 

Knowledge from the first. 
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver ! 

Life's career so void of pain, 
As to wish its fitful fever 

New begun again? 
Could experience, ten times thine, 
Pain from Being disentwine — 
Threads by Fate together spun ? 
Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun ? 
No, nor could thy foresight's glance 
'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance. 

Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble — 

Friendship's death-dissever'd ties ; 
Toil to grasp or miss the bubble 

Of Ambition's prize ? 
Say thy life's new guided action 

Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springs — 
Still would Envy and Detraction 

Double not their stings ? 



VALEDICTORY STANZAS. H5 

Worth itself is but a charter 

To be mankind's distinguish'd martyr." 

— I caught the moral, and cried, " Hail ! 

Spirit ! let us onward sail 

Envying, fearing, hating none- 

Guardian Spirit, steer me on !" 



VALEDICTORY STANZAS 

TO 

J. P. KEMBLE, Esq. 

COMPOSED FOB A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817. 



Pride of the British stage, 

A long and last adieu ! 
Whose image brought the heroic age 

Revived to Fancy's view. 
Like fields refresh'd with dewy light 

When the sun smiles his last, 
Thy parting presence makes more bright 

Our memory of the past ; 
And memory conjures feelings up 

That wine or music need not swell, 
As high we lift the festal cup 

To Kemble— fare thee well ! 

His was the spell o'er hearts 

Which only Acting lends, — 
The youngest of the sister Arts, 

Where all their beauty blends: 



116 VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 

For ill can Poetry express 

Full many a tone of thought sublime, 
And Painting, mute and motionless, 

Steals but a glance of time. 
But by the mighty actor brought, 

Illusion's perfect triumphs come, — 
Verse ceases to be airy thought, 

And Sculpture to be dumb. 

Time may again revive, 

But ne'er eclipse the charm, 
When Cato spoke in him alive, 

Or Hotspur kindled warm. 
What soul was not resign'd entire 

To the deep sorrows of the Moor, — 
What English heart was not on fire 

With him at Agincourt ? 
And yet a majesty possess'd 

His transport's most impetuous tone, 
And to each passion of the breast 

The Graces gave their zone. 

High w r ere the task — too high, 

Ye conscious bosoms here ! 
In w T ords to paint your memory 
Of Kemble and of Lear ; 
But who forgets that white discrowned head, 

Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguisli'd fflare — 
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, 
In doubt more touching than despair, 
If 'twas reality he felt? 

Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been, 



VALEDICTORY STANZAS. 117 

Friends, he had seen you melt, 
And triumphed to have seen ! 

And there was many an hour 

Of blended kindred fame, 
When Siddons's auxiliar power 

And sister magic came. 
Together at the Muse's side 

The tragic paragons had grown — 
They were the children of her pride,, 

The columns of her throne ; 
And undivided favour ran 

From heart to heart in their applause, 
Save for the gallantry of man 

In lovelier woman's cause. 

Fair as some classic dome, 

Robust and richly graced, 
Your Kemble's spirit was the home 

Of genius and of taste ; 
Taste, like the silent dial's power, 

That, when supernal light is given, 
Can measure inspiration's hour, 

And tell its height in heaven. 
At once ennobled and correct, 

His mind survey'd the tragic page, 
And what the actor could effect, 

The scholar could presage. 

These were his traits of worth : — 

And must we lose them now! — 

And shall the scene no more show forth 

His sternly-pleasing brow ? 
G2 



118 TO THE RAINBOW 

Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — 

'Tis all a transient hour below; 
And we that would detain thee here, 

Ourselves as fleetly go ! 
Yet shall our latest age 

This parting scene review ; — 
Pride of the British stage, 

A long and last adieu ! 



TO THE RAINBOW. 



Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky 
When storms prepare to part, 

I ask not proud Philosophy 
To teach me what thou art. — 

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 

A midway station given 
For happy spirits to alight 

Betwixt the earth and heaven. 

Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
Thy form to please me so, 

As when I dreamt of gems and gold 
Hid in thy radiant bow ? 

When Science from Creation's face 
Enchantment's veil withdraws, 

What lovely visions yield their place 
To cold material laws' 




•' How glorious is thy girdle, cast 
O'er mountain, tower, and town, 
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, 
A thousand fathoms down ! 



p. 119. 



TO THE RAINBOW 119 

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 

But words of the Most High, 
Have told why first thy robe of beams 

Was woven in the sky. 

When o'er the green undeluged earth 
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 

How came the world's grey fathers forth 
To watch thy sacred sign. 

And when its yellow lustre smiled 

O'er mountains yet untrod, 
Each mother held aloft her child 

To bless the bow of God. 

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 

The first made anthem rang 
On earth deliver'd from the deep, 

And the first poet sang. 

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 

Unraptured greet thy beam : 
Theme of primeval prophecy, 

Be still the prophet's theme ! 

The earth to thee her incense yields, 

The lark thy welcome sings, 
When glittering in the freshen'd fields 

The snowy mushroom springs. 

How glorious is thy girdle, cast 

O'er mountain, tower, and town, 
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast, 

A thousand fathoms down ! 



120 TO THE RAINBOW. 

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 
As young thy beauties seem, 

As when the eagle from the ark 
First sported in thy beam. 

For, faithful to its sacred page, 
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 

Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
That first spoke peace to man. 



GERTRUDE OE WYOMING. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, 
give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, 
which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and 
Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testi- 
monies of historians and travellers concur -in describing the infant colony as 
one of the happiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent 
manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant 
fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European 
with Indian arms converted this terrestial paradise into a frightful waste. 
Mr. Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated 
with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration, were still preserved by the re- 
cent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796. 

11 




" On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! 
Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall, 
And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring 
Of what thy gentle people did befai" 

p. 125. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING 



PART THE FIRST. 



On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming ! 

Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall, 

And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring 

Of what thy gentle people did befal ; 

Yet thou wert once the lovliest land of all 

That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. 

Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recal, 

And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, 

Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore ! 



ir. 



Delightful Wyoming ! beneath thy skies 
The happy shepherd swains had nought to do 
But feed their flocks on green declivities, 
Or skim perchance thy lake with light canoe, 
From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew, 
With timbrel, when beneath the forests brown 
Thy lovely maidens would the dance renew; 
And aye those sunny mountains half-way down 
Would echo flagelet from some romantic town. 



126 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

in. 

Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes 
His leave, how might you the flamingo see 
Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — ■ 
And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : 
And every sound of life was full of glee, 
From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men ; 
While hearkening, fearing nought their revelry, 
The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then, 
Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. 

IV. 

And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime 
Heard, but in transatlantic story rung, 
For here the exile met from every clime, 
And spoke in friendship every distant tongue : 
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung 
Were but divided by the running brook ; 
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, 
On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook, 
The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning- 
hook. 

v. 

Nor far some Andalusian saraband 

Would sound to many a native roundelay — 

But who is he that yet a dearer land 

Remembers, over hills and far away ? 

Green Albin !* what though he no more survey 

Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, 

* Scotland. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 127 

Thy pellochs * rolling from the mountain bay, 

Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, 

And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan f roar' 

VII. 

Alas ! poor Caledonia's mountaineer, 

That want's stern edict e'er, and feudal grief, 

Had forced him from a home he loved so dear ! 

Yet found he here a home and glad relief 

And plied the beverage from his own fair sheaf, 

That fired his Highland blood with mickle glee : 

And England sent her men, of men the chief, 

Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be, 

To plant the tree of life, — to plant fair Freedom's tree ! 

vn. 

Here was not mingled in the city's pomp 

Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; 

Judgment awoke not here her dismal tromp, 

Nor seal'd in blood a fellow-creature's doom, 

Nor mourn'd the captive in a living tomb. 

One venerable man, beloved of all, "• ' 

Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom, 

To sway the strife, that seldom might befal : 

And Albert was their judge, in patriarchal hall. 



How reverend was the look, serenely aged, 
He bore, this gentle Pennsylvanian sire, 
Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, 

* The Gaelic appellation for the porpoise. 

t The great whirlpool of the Western Hebrides. 



128 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Undimm'd by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! 
And though, amidst the calm of thought entire, 
Some high and haughty features might betray 
A soul impetuous once, 't was earthly fire 
That fled composure's intellectual ray, 

As ^Etna's fires grow dim before the rising day. 

i 

IX. 

I boast no song in magic wonders rife, 

But yet, oh Nature ! is there nought to prize, 

Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life ? 

And dwells in day-light truth's salubrious skies 

No form with which the soul may sympathise ? — 

Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild 

The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise, 

An inmate in the home of Albert smiled, 

Or bless'd his noonday walk — she was his only child. 

x. 

The rose of England bloom'd on Gertrude's cheek — 
What though these shades had seen her birth, her si- e 
A Briton's independence taught to seek 
Far western worlds ; and there his household fire 
The light of social love did long inspire, 
And many a halcyon day he lived to see 
Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, 
When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she 
Was gone — and Gertrude clirnb'd a widow'd father's 
knee. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 129 



XI. 



A loved bequest : and I may half impart — 

To them that feel the strong paternal tie — 

How like a new existence to his heart 

That living flower uprose beneath his eye, 

Dear as she was from cherub infancy, 

From hours when she would round his garden play, 

To time when, as the ripening years went by, 

Her lovely mind could culture well repay, 

And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. 

XII. 

I may not paint those thousand infant charms ; 
(Unconscious fascination, undesign'd !) 
The orison repeated in his arms, 
For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; 
The book, the bosom on his knee reclined, 
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, 
(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) 
All uncompanion'd else her heart had gone 
Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer 
shone. 

XIII. 

And summer was the tide, and sweet the hour, 
When sire and daughter saw, with fleet descent, 
An Indian from his bark approach their bower, 
Of buskin'd limb, and swarthy lineament ; 
The red wild feathers on his brow were blent, 
And bracelets bound the arm that help'd to light 
A boy, who seem'd, as he beside him went, 



130 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Of Christian vesture, and complexion bright, 

Led by his dusky guide, like morning brought by night. 

XIV. 

Yet pensive seem'd the boy for one so young — 
The dimple from his polish'd cheek had fled ; 
When, leaning on his forest-bow unstrung, 
The Oneyda warrior to the planter said, 
And laid his hand upon the stripling's head, 
" Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve; 
The paths of peace my steps have hither led : 
This little nurseling, take him to thy love, 
And shield the bird unfledged, since gone the parent 
dove. 

xv. 

Christian ! I am the foeman of thy foe ; 

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace : 

Upon the Michigan, three moons ago, 

We launchM our pirogues for the bison chace, 

And with the Hurons planted for a space, 

With true and faithful hands, the olive-stalk ; 

But snakes are in the bosoms of their race, 

And though they held with us a friendly talk, 

The hollow peace-tree fell beneath their tomahawk ! 

XVI. 

It was encamping on the lake's far port, 

A cry of Areouski * broke our sleep, 

Where storm'd an ambush'd foe thy nation's fort, 

And rapid, rapid whoops came o'er the deep ; 

* The Indian God of War. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 13] 

But long thy country's war-sign on the steep 

Appeared through ghastly intervals of light, 

And deathfully their thunders seem'd to sweep, 

Till utter darkness swallow'd up the sight, 

As if a shower of blood had quench'd the fiery fight ! 



It slept — it rose again — on high their tower 
Sprung upwards like a torch to light the skies, 
Then down again it rain'd an ember shower, 
And louder lamentations heard we rise : 
As when the evil Manitou that dries 
The Ohio w 7 oods, consumes them in his ire, 
In vain the desolated panther flies, 
And howls amidst his wilderness of fire : 
Alas ! too late, we reach'd and smote those Hurons 
dire ! 

XVIII. 

But as the fox beneath the nobler hound, 

So died their warriors by our battle-brand ; 

And from the tree we, with her child, unbound 

A lonely mother of the Christian land : — 

Her lord — the captain of the British band — 

Amidst the slaughter of his soldiers lay. 

Scarce knew the widow our delivering hand ; 

Upon her child she sobb'd, and swoon'd away, 

Or shriek'd unto the God to whom the Christians pray. 

XIX. 

Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowls 
Of fever-balm and sweet sagamite : 



132 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

But she was journeying to the land of souls, 
And lifted up her dying head to pray 
That we should bid an ancient friend convey 
Her orphan to his home of England's shore ; 
And take, she said, this token far away, 
To one that will remember us of yore, 
When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia 
wore. 

xx. 

And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'd 

With this lorn dove." — A sage's self-command 

Had quell'd the tears from Albert's heart that gush'd , 

But yet his cheek — his agitated hand — 

That shower'd upon the stranger of the land 

No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled 

A soul that was not wont to be unmann'd; 

" And stay," he cried, " dear pilgrim of the wild, 

Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child ! — 

XXI. 

Child of a race whose name my bosom warms, 
On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here ! 
Whose mother oft, a child, has fill'd these arms, 
Young as thyself, and innocently dear, 
Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer. 
Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime ! 
How beautiful ev'n now thy scenes appear, 
As in the noon and sunshine of my prime ! 
How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of 
time ' 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 133 



XXII. 

And Julia ! when thou wert like Gertrude now, 

Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore ? 

Or thought I, in thy father's house, when thou 

Wert lightest-hearted on his festive floor, 

And first of all his hospitable door 

To meet and kiss me at my journey's end ? 

But where was I when Waldegrave was no more ? 

And thou didst pale thy gentle head extend 

In woes, that ev'n the tribe of deserts was thy friend ! " 

XXIII. 

He said — and strain'd unto his heart the boy ; — 
Far differently, the mute Oneyda took 
His calumet of peace, and cup of joy ; 
As monumental bronze unchanged his look ; 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook ; 
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

XXIV. 

Yet deem not goodness on the savage stock 
Of Outalissi's heart disdain'd to grow ; 
As lives the oak unwither'd on the rock 
By storms above, and barrenness below ; 
He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe : 
And ere the wolf-skin on his back he flung, 
Or laced his mocasins, in act to go, 



134 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

A song of parting to the boy he sung, 
Who slept on Albert's couch, nor heard his friendly 
tongue. 

XXV. 

" Sleep, wearied one! and in the dreaming land 

Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, 

Oh ! tell her spirit that the white man's hand 

Hath pluck'd the thorns of sorrow from thy feet ; 

While I in lonely wilderness shall greet 

Thy little foot prints — or by traces know 

The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet 

To feed the with thee quarry of my bow, 

And pour'd the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe. 



Adieu ! sweet scion of the rising sun ! 
But should affliction's storms thy blossom mock, 
Then come again — my own adopted one ! 
And I will graft thee on a noble stock : 
The crocodile, the condor of the rock, 
Shall be the pastime of thy sylvan wars ; 
And I will teach thee, in the battle's shock, 
To pay with Huron blood thy father's scars, 
And gratulate his soul rejoicing in the stars !" 

xxvir. 

So finish'd he the rhyme (howe'er uncouth) 
That true to nature's fervid feelings ran ; 
(And song is but the eloquence of truth :) 
Then forth uprose that lone wayfaring man ; 




" While I in lonely wilderness shall greet 
Thy little foot-prints — or by traces know 
The fountain, where at noon I thought it sweet 
To feed thee with the quarry of my bow, 
And pourM the lotus-horn, or slew the mountain roe." 

p. 134. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 135 

But dauntless he, nor chart nor journey's plan 
In woods required, whose trained eye was keen, 
As eagle of the wilderness, to scan 
His path by mountain, swamp, or deep ravine, 
Or ken far friendly huts on good savannas green. 

XXVIII. 

Old Albert saw him from the valley's side — 

His pirogue launch'd — his pilgrimage begun — 

Far, like the red-bird's wing, he seem'd to glide : 

Then dived, and vanish'd in the woodlands dun. 

Oft, to that spot, by tender memory won, 

Would Albert climb the promontory's height, 

If but a dim sail glimmer'd in the sun; 

But never more, to bless his longing sight, * 

Was Outalissi hail'd, with bark and plumage bright. 



12 



END CF THF KIRVT PART 




" A valley from the river-shore withdrawn 
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, 
Whose lolty verdure overlook'd his lawn : 
And waters to their resting-place serene 
Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene. 1 ' 



■\ 137. 



PART THE SECOND. 



A valley from the river-shore withdrawn 
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between, 
Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn ; 
And waters to their resting-place serene 
Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene : 
(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;) 
So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) 
Have guess'd some congregation of the elves, 
To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for them- 
selves. 

ir. 

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse, 
Nor vistas open'd by the wandering stream ; 
Both where at evening Alleghany views, 
Through ridges burning in her western beam, 
Lake after lake interminably gleam : 
And past those settlers' haunts the eye might roam 
Where earth's unliving silence all would seem; 
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome, 
Or buffalo remote low'd far from human home. 

in. 

But silent not that adverse eastern path, 
Which saw Aurora's hills th' horizon crown ; 
There was the river heard, in bed of wrath, 



138 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

(A precipice of foam from mountains brown,) 
Like tumults heard from some far distant town ; 
But softening in approach he left his gloom, 
And murmur'd pleasantly, and laid him down 
To kiss those easy curving banks of bloom, 
That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume. 

IV. 

It seem'd as if those scenes sweet influence had 

On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own 

Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad, 

That seem'd to love whate'er they look'd upon ; 

Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone, 

Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast, 

(As if for heavenly musing meant alone ;) 

Yet so becomingly th' expression past, 

That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last. 

v. 

Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home, 

With all its picturesque and balmy grace, 

And fields that were a luxury to roam, 

Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face ! 

Enthusiast of the woods ! when years apace 

Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone, 

The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace 

To hills with high magnolia overgrown, 

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone. 

VI. 

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth, 
That thus apostrophised its viewless scene : 



'aM 










" in this lone valley she would charm 

The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn ; 
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm 
On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown," 

p. 140. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING 139 

" Land of my father's love, my mother's birth ! 

The home of kindred I have never seen ! 

We know not other — oceans are between : 

Yet say, far friendly hearts ! from whence we came, 

Of us does oft remembrance intervene ? 

My mother sure — my sire a thought may claim ; — 

But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name. 



VII. 

And yet, loved England ! when thy name I trace 

In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song, 

How can I choose but wish for one embrace 

Of them, the dear unknown to whom belong 

My mother's looks, — perhaps her likeness strong ? 

Oh, parent ! with what reverential awe, • 

From features of thine own related throng, 

An image of thy face my soul could draw ! 

And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw !" 



VIII. 

Yet deem not Gertrude sigh'd for foreign joy ; 
To soothe a father's couch her only care, 
And keep his reverend head from all annoy : 
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair, 
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair 
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew, 
While boatman carol'd to the fresh-blown air, 
And woods a horizontal shadow threw, 
And early fox appear'd in momentary view. 



140 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

IX. 

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot, 

Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore ; 

Tradition had not named its lonely spot; 

But here (methinks) might India's sons explore 

Their father's dust, or lift, perchance of yore, 

Their voice to the great Spirit : — rocks sublime 

To human art a sportive semblance bore, 

And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime, 

Like moonlight battlementsj and towers decay'd by 
time. 



But high in amphitheatre above, 
Gay-tinted woods their massy foliage threw : 
Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove 
As if instinct with living spirit grew, 
Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ; 
And now suspended was the pleasing din, 
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew, 
Like the first note of organ heard within 
Cathedral aisles, — ere yet its symphony begin. 

XI. 

It was in this lone valley she would charm 

The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strown ; 

Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm 

On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown : 

And aye that volume on her lap is thrown, 

Which every heart of human mould endears; 

With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone, 




' A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, 
He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, 
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, 
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space 
Those downcast features." 



p. 14L 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 141 

And no intruding visitation fears, 
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her svveetest 
tears. 

XII. 

And nought within the grove was heard or seen 
But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound, 
Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird, 
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round ; 
When, lo ! there enter'd to its inmost ground 
A youth, the stranger of a distant land ; 
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ; 
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd, 
And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd. 

XIII. 

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm, 
He led dismounted ; ere his leisure pace, 
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm, 
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space 
Those downcast features : — she her lovely face 
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame 
Wore youth and manhood's intermingled grace : 
Iberian seem'd his boot — his robe the same, 
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became. 

XIV. 

For Albert's home he sought — her finger fair 
Has pointed where the father's mansion stood. 
Returning from the copse he soon was there; 
And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood ; 
Nor joyless, by the converse, understood 



142 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Between the man of age and pilgrim young, 

That gay congeniality of mood, 

And early liking from acquaintance sprung ; 

Full fluently conversed their guest in England's tongue. 

XV. 

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste 

Unfold, — and much they loved his fervid strain, 

While he each fair variety retraced 

Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main. 

Now happy Svvitzer's hills, — romantic Spain, — 

Gay lilied fields of France, — or, more refined, 

The soft Ausonia's monumental reign ; 

Nor less each rural image he design'd 

Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind. 

xvr. 

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ; 

Of Nature's savage glories he would speak, — 

The loneliness of earth that overawes, — 

Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique, 

The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak 

Nor living voice nor motion marks around ; 

But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, 

Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound, 

That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound 

XVII. 

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply 
Each earnest question, and his converse court ; 
But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why 
A strange and troubling wonder stopp'd her short. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 113 

" In England thou hast been, — and, by report ; 
An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have known. 
Sad tale ! — when latest fell our frontier fort, — 
One innocent — one soldier's child — alone 
Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my 
own. 

XVIII. 

Young Henry Waldegrave ! three delightful years 

These very walls his infant sports did see, 

But most I loved him when his parting tears 

Alternately bedew'd my child and me : 

His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee ; 

Nor half its grief his little heart could hold ; 

By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, 

They tore him from us when but twelve years old, 

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled !" 

XIX. 

His face the wanderer hid — but could not hide 

A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell ; 

"And speak! mysterious stranger ! (Gertrude cried) 

" It is ! — I knew — I knew him well ! 

'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell!" 

A burst of joy the father's lips declare ; 

But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell ; 

At once his open arms embraced the pair, 

Was never group more blest in this wide world of care. 

xx. 
" And will ye pardon then (replied the youth) 
Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire ? 
I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth, 
The very fortunes of your house enquire ; 



144 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire 
Impart, and I my weakness all betray ; 
For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, 
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day, 
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away. 

XXI. 

But here ye live, ye bloom, — in each dear face 
The changing hand of time I may not blame; 
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace, 
And here, of beauty perfected the frame : 
And well I know your hearts are still the same — 
They could not change — ye look the very way, 
As when an orphan first to you I came. 
And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray ? 
Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous 
day?" 

XXII. 

" And art thou here ? or is it but a dream ? 

And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us 

more ?" — 
" No, never ! thou that yet dost lovelier seem 
Than aught on earth — than ev'n thyself of yore — 
I will not part thee from thy father's shore ; 
But we shall cherish him with mutual arms, 
And hand in hand again the path explore, 
Which every ray of young remembrance warms. 
While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth an 

charms !" 

XXIII. 

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy 

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white, . 




"listening to these accents of delight, 

She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond 
Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond." 



p. 145. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 115 

Where all was odorous scent and harmony, 
And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight : 
There, if, oh gentle Love ! I read aright 
The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond, 
'Twas listening to these accents of delight, 
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond 
Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond — 

XXIV. 

" Flower of my life, so lovely and so lone ! 

Whom I would rather in this desert meet, 

Scorning, and scorn'd by fortune's power, than own 

Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my feet ! 

Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite 

Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine — to please— 

Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, 

And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, 

When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas." 

XXV 

Then would that home admit them — happier far 

Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon, 

While, here and there, a solitary star 

Flush'd in the darkening firmament of June ; 

And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon, 

Ineffable, which I may not portray ; 

For never did the hymenean moon 

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway, 

In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray. 

END OF THE SECOND PART. 



PART THE THIRD. 



O Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 

Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 

And here thou art a god indeed divine. 

Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine, 

The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire f 

Roll on, ye days of raptured influence, shine ! 

Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire, 

Shall Love behold the spark of earth-born time expire. 

n. 
Three little moons, how short ! amidst the grove 
And pastoral savannas they consume ! 
While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove, 
Delights, in fancifully wild costume, 
Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume ; 
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare ; 
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom, 
'Tis but the breath of heaven — the blessed air — 
And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share. 

in. 
What though the sportive dog oft round them note, 
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing ; 
Yet who, in Love's own presence, would devote 
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring, 



148 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Or writhing from the brook its victim bring ? 
No ! — nor let fear one little warbler rouse ; 
But, fed by Gertrude's hand, still let them sing 
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs 
That shade ev'n now her love, and witness'd first her 
vows. 

[V. 

Now labyrinths, which but themselves can pierce, 
Methinks, conduct them to some pleasant ground, 
Where welcome lulls shut out the universe, 
And pines their lawny walk encompass round; 
There, if a pause delicious converse found, 
'Twas but when o'er each heart the idea stole, 
(Perchance a while in joy's oblivion drown'd) 
That come what may, while life's glad pulses roll, 
Indissolubly thus should soul be knit to soul. 

v. 
And in the visions of romantic youth, 
What years of endless bliss are yet to flow ! 
But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth ? 
The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below ! 
And must I change my song ? and must I show, 
Sweet Wyoming ! the day when thou wert doom'd, 
Guiltless, to mourn thy loveliest bowers laid low ! 
When where of yesterday a garden bloom'd, 
Death overspread his pall, and blackening ashes 
gloom'd ! 

VI. 

Sad was the year, by proud oppression driven, 
When Transatlantic Liberty arose, 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 149 

Not in the sunshine and the smile of heaven, 
But wrapt in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes, 
Amidst the strife of fratricidal foes; 
Her birth-star was the light of burning plains;* 
Her baptism is the weight of blood that flows 
From kindred hearts — the blood of British veins — 
And famine tracks her steps, and pestilential pains. 

vir. 

Yet, ere the storm of death had raged remote, 
Or siege unseen in heaven reflects its beams, 
Who now each dreadful circumstance shall note, 
That fills pale Gertrude's thoughts, and nightly dreams . 
Dismal to her the forge of battle gleams 
Portentous light ! and music's voice is dumb ; 
Save where the fife its shrill reveille screams 
Or midnight streets re-echo to the drum, 
That speaks of maddening strife, and bloodstain'd fields 
to come. 

VIII. 

It was in truth a momentary pang ; 

Yet how comprising myriad shapes of woe ! 

First when in Gertrude's ear the summons rang, 

A husband to the battle doom'd to go ! 

" Nay meet not thou (she cried) thy kindred foe ! 

But peaceful let us seek fair England's strand !" 

"Ah, Gertrude, thy beloved heart, I know, 

Would feel like mine the stigmatising brand ! 

Could I forsake the cause of Freedom's holy band ! 

• Alluding to the miseries that attended the American civil war. 



150 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



IX. 

But shame — but flight — a recreant's name to prove, 
To hide in exile ignominious fears ; 
Say, ev'n if this I brook'd, the public love, 
Thy father's bosom to his home endears : 
And how could I his few remaining years, 
My Gertrude, sever from so dear a child 1" 
So, day by day, her boding heart he cheers; 
At last that heart to hope is half beguiled, 
And pale, through tears suppress'd, the mournful beauty 
smiled. 

x. 

Night came, — and in their lighted bovver, full late, 
The joy of converse had endured — when, hark ! 
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; 
And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark 
A form had rush'd amidst them from the dark, 
And spread his arms, — and fell upon the floor ; 
Of aged strength his limbs retain'd the mark ; 
But desolate he look'd, and famish'd poor, 
As ever shipwreck'd wretch lone left on desert shore. 

xr. 

Uprisen, each wondering brow is knit and arch'd : 

A spirit from the dead they deem him first : 

To speak he tries; but quivering, pale, and parch'd, 

From lips, as by some powerless dream accursed, 

Emotions unintelligible burst ; 

And long his filmed eye is red and dim ; 

At length the pity-proffer'd cup his thirst 



"•illHUMllW. i 




*' when, hark ! 

Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate ; 
And heedless of the dog's obstrep'rous bark 
A form had rush'd amidst them from the dark, 
And spread his arms,— and fell upon the floor." 



p. 150. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 151 

Had half assuaged, and nerved his shuddering limb, 
When Albert's hand he grasp'd ; — but Albert knew not 
him — 

XII. 

" And hast thou then forgot, (he cried forlorn, 
And eyed the group with half indignant air,) 
Oh ! hast thou, Christian chief, forgot the morn 
When I with thee the cup of peace did share 1 
Then stately was this head, and dark this hair, 
That now is white as Appalachia's snow ; 
But, if the weight of fifteen years' despair, 
And age hath bow'd me, and the torturing foe, 
Bring me my boy — and he will his deliverer know !" — 

XXIII. 

It was not long, with eyes and heart of flame, 

Ere Henry to his loved Oneyda flew : 

" Bless thee, my guide !" — but backward, as he came, 

The chief his old bewilder'd head withdrew, 

And grasp'd his arm, and look'd and look'd him through. 

'Twas strange — nor could the group a smile control — 

The long, the doubtful scrutiny to view : 

At last delight o'er all his features stole, 

"It is — my own," he cried, and clasp'd him to his sou!. 

XIV. 

" Yes ! thou recall'st my pride of years, for then 

The bowstring of my spirit was not slack, 

When, spite of woods, and floods, and ambush'd men, 

I bore thee like the quiver on my back, 

Fleet as the whirlwind hurries on the rack ; 



152 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



Nor foeman then, nor cougar's* crouch I feared. 

For I was strong as mountain-cataract: 

And dost thou not remember how we cheer'd, 

Upon the last hill-top, when white men's huts appear'd ? 

XV. 

Then welcome be my death-song, and my death ! 

Since I have seen thee, and again embraced." 

And longer had he spent his toil-worn breath; 

But with affectionate and eager haste 

Was every arm outstretch'd around their guest, 

To welcome and to bless his aged head. 

Soon was the hospitable banquet placed; 

And Gertrude's lovely hands a balsam shed 

On wounds with fever'd joy that more profusely bled. 

XVI. 

" But this is not a time," — he started up, 

And smote his breast with woe-denouncing hand — 

"This is no time to fill the joyous cup. 

The mammoth comes — the foe — the Monster Brandt — 

With all his howling, desolating band; 

These eyes have seen their blade and burning pine 

Awake at once, and silence half your land. 

Red is the cup they drink; but not with wine: 

Awake, and watch to-night, or see no morning shine ! 



Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 
'Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth: 
Accursed Brandt ! he left of all my tribe 
Nor man, nor child, nor thing of living birth: 
No! not the dog that watch'd my household hearth. 

* Cougar, the American tiger. 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 153 

Escaped that night of blood, upon our plains 

All perish'd — I alone am left on earth ! 

To whom nor relative nor blood remains, 

No ! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins ! 

XVIII. 

But go ! — and rouse your warriors ; — for, if right 

These old bewilder'd eyes could guess, by signs 

Of striped and starred banners, on yon height 

Of eastern cedars, o'er the creek of pines — 

Some fort embattled by your country shines : 

Deep roars the innavigable gulf below 

Its squared rock, and palisaded lines. 

Go! seek the light its warlike beacons show; 

Whilst I in ambush wait, for vengeance, and the foe !" 

XIX. 

Scarce had he utter'd — when Heaven's verge extreme 

Reverberates the bomb's descending star, — 

And sounds that mingled laugh, — and shout, — and 

scream, — 
To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, 
Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. 
Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assail'd ; 
As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; 
While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd : — 
And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wail'd. 



XX. 



Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung 
The bandit groups, in one Vesuvian glare ; 
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung 
Told legible that midnight of despair. 



154 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

She faints,— she falters not,— the heroic fair, — 
As he the sword and plume in haste array'd. 
One short embrace — he clasp'd his dearest care — 
But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ? 
Joy, joy ! Columbia's friends are trampling through the 
shade ! 

XXI. 

Then came of every race the mingled swarm, 

Far rung the groves and gleam'd the midnight grass, 

With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; 

As warriors wheel'd their culverins of brass, 

Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, 

Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines : 

And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, 

His plumed host the dark Iberian joins — 

And Scotia's sword beneath the Highland thistle shines. 

xxn. 
And in the buskin'd hunters of the deer, 
To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng : — 
Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, 
Old Outalissi woke his battle song, 
And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, 
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts, 
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long, 
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts, 
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. — 

XXIII. 

Calm, opposite the Christian father rose 
Pale on his venerable brow its rays 
Of martyr-light the conflagration throws; 
One hand upon his lovely child he lays, 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 155 

And one the uncover'd crowd to silence sways; 
While, though the battle flash is faster driven, — 
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, 
He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, — 
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be forgiven. 

XXIV. 

Short time is now for gratulating speech : 

And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began 

Thy country's flight, yon distant towers to reach, 

Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan 

With brow relax' d to love 1 And murmurs ran, 

As round and round their willing ranks they drew, 

From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van. 

Grateful, on them a placid look she threw, 

Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu ! 

XXV. 

Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower, 

That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd 

Defiance on the roving Indian power, 

Beneath, each bold and promontory mound 

With embrasure emboss'd, and armour crown'd, 

And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin, 

Wove like a diadem its tracery round 

The lofty summit of that mountain green ; 

Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene,- 

XXVI. 

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, 
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; 
And for the business of destruction done, 
Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow : 



156 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 



There, sad spectatress of her country's woe ! 
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, 
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow 
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm 
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm ! 



XXVII. 



But short that contemplation — sad and short 

The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! 

Beneath the very shadow of the fort, 

Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew ; 

Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew 

Was near? — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds, 

Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, 

The ambush'd foeman's eye — his volley speeds, 

And Albert — Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds ! 



XXVIII. 



And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd ; 
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, 
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, 
These drops ? — Oh, God ! the life-blood is her own ! 
And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown — 
" Weep not, O Love !" — she cries, " to see me bleed— 
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 
Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed 
These wounds ; — yet thee to leave is death, is death 
indeed! 



XXIX. 



Clasp me a little longer on the brink 

Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh! think, 

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 157 

That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 

And friend to more than human friendship just. 

Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust ! 

XXX. 

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, 

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move, 

Where my dear father took thee to his heart, 

And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove 

With thee, as with an angel, through the grove 

Of peace, imagining her lot was cast 

In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. 

And must this parting be our very last ? 

No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. — 

» 

XXXI. 

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, — ■ 

And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun, 

If I had lived to smile but on the birth 

Of one dear pledge : — but shall there then be none, 

In future times — no gentle little one, 

To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? 

Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, 

A sweetness in the cup of death to be, 

Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee !" 

xxxir. 

Hush'd were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland 
And beautiful expression seem'd to melt 
With love that could not die ! and still his hand 
She presses to the heart no more that felt. 

14 



158 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, 
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. 
Mute, gazing, agonising, as he knelt, — 
Of them that stood encircling his despair, 
He heard some friendly words; — but knew not what 
they were. 

xxxnr. 

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives 
A faithful band. With solemn rites between 
'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives, 
And in their deaths had not divided been. 
Touch'd by the music, and the melting scene, 
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd : — 
Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen 
To veil their eyes, as pass'd each much-loved shroud — ■ 
While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud. 

XXXIV. 

Then mournfully the parting bugle bid 

Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth ; 

Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid 

His face on earth; — him watch'd, in gloomy ruth, 

His woodland guide : but words had none to soothe 

The grief that knew not consolation's name : 

Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, 

He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that came 

Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame ! 

xxxv. 

" And I could weep ;"^the Oneyda chief 

His descant wildly thus begun : 

" But that I may not stain with grief 



GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 159 

The death-song of my father's son, 

Or bow this head in woe ! 

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! 

To-morrow Areouski's breath 

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death) 

Shall light us to the foe : 

And we shall share, my Christian boy ! 

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! 

XXXVI. 

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given 

By milder genii o'er the deep, 

The spirits of the white man's heaven 

Forbid not thee to weep : — 

Nor will the Christian host, 

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, 

To see thee, on the battle's eve, 

Lamenting, take a mournful leave 

Of her who loved thee most : 

She was the rainbow to thy sight! 

Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! 

XXXVII. 

To-morrow let us do or die ! 

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd, 

Ah ! whither then with thee to fly, 

Shall Outalissi roam the world ? 

Seek we thy once-loved home ? 

The hand is gone that cropp'd its flowers : 

Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! 

Cold is the hearth within their bowers f 



160 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING 

And should we thither roam, 

Its echoes, and its empty tread, 

Would sound like voices from the dead ! 

XXXVIII. 

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, 

Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd, 

And by my side, in battle true, 

A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? 

Ah ! there, in desolation cold, 

The desert serpent dwells alone, 

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, 

And stones themselves to ruin grown, 

Like me, are death-like old. 

Then seek we not their camp, — for there — 

The silence dwells of my despair ! 

xxxix. 

But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou 
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : 
Ev'n from the land of shadows now 
My father's awful ghost appears, 
Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; 
He bids my soul for battle thirst — 
He bids me dry the last — the first — 
The only tears that ever burst 
From Outalissi's soul ; 
Because I may not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief!" 

" END OF THE THIRD PART. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY OF LONDON, 

WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21 ST OF MARCH, 

THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. 



Pledge to the much-loved land that gave us birth ! 

Invincible romantic Scotia's shore ! 
Pledge to the memory of her parted worth ! 

And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore ! 

And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give, 
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh ! 

Who would not envy such as Moore to live ? 
And died he not as heroes wish to die ? 

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal, 
To us his bright career too short was given ; 

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul 
Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven ! 

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain 

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn 

For him ! — How oft on far Corunna's plain 
Shall British exiles weep upon his urn ! 

Peace to the mighty dead ; — our bosom thanks 
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire ! 

Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks, 
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire ! 



162 LINES 

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd, 

Dear symbol wild ! on Freedom's hills it grows, 

Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, 
And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes. 

Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast, 
Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor, 

And wrench'd the banner from her bravest host, 
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore ! 

Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand, 

When, bayonet to bayonet opposed, 
First of Britannia's host her Highland band 

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed f 

Is there a son of generous England here, 
Or fervid Erin ? — he with us shall join, 

To pray that in eternal union dear 

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! 

Types of a race who shall the invader scorn, 
As rocks resist the billows round their shore ; 

Types of a race who shall to time unborn 
Their country leave unconquer'd as of yore ! 

* The 42nd Regiment. 



STANZAS 



TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING 
THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. 



Brave men who at the Trocadero fell — 
Beside your cannons conquer'd not, though slain, 
There is a victory in dying well 
For Freedom, — and ye have not died in vain ; 
For, come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain 
To honour, ay embrace your martyr'd lot, 
Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, 
And looking on your graves, though trophied not, 
As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make the 
spot ! 

What though your cause be baffled — freemen cast 

In dungeons — diagg'd to death, or forced to flee ; 

Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast — 

The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree; 

And short your orgies of revenge shall be, 

Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell ! 

Earth shudders at your victory, — for ye 

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, 

The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell ! 

Go to your bloody rites again — bring back 
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, 
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack ; 
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ; — 
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ; — 



]64 STANZAS. 

Then let your altars, ye blasphemers ! peal 

With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, 

To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel 

No eye may search— no tongue may challenge or reveal ! 

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime 

Too proudly, ye oppressors ! — Spain was free, 

Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime 

Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty; 

And these even parting scatter as they flee 

Thoughts — influences, to live in hearts unborn, 

Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key 

From Persecution — show her mask off-torn, 

And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of Scorn. 

Glory .to them that die in this great cause ; 
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame, 
Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause : — 
No ! manglers of the martyr's earthly frame ! 
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame. 
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some 
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame. 
Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, 
But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come. 



SONG OF THE GREEKS. 



Again to the battle, Achaians ! , 

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ! 

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree — 

It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : 

For the cross of our faith is replanted, 

The pale dying crescent is daunted, 

And we inarch that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves 

May be wash'd out in blood from our forefather's graves. 

Their spirits are hovering o'er us, 

And the sword shall to glory restore us. 

Ah ! what though no succour advances, 
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances 
Are stretch'd in our aid — be the combat our own ! 
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone ; 
"For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters, 
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars, 
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, 
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, 
That, living, we shall be victorious, 
Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. 

A breath of submission we breathe not ; 
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not ! 
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, 
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. 
Earth may hide — waves engulf — fire consume us, 
But they shall not to slavery doom us : 



166 SONG OF THE GREEKS. 

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves ; 
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, 
And new triumphs on land are before us, 
To the charge ! — Heaven's banner is o'er us. 

This day shall ye blush for its story, 

Or brighten your lives with its glory. 

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, 

Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their 

hair? 
Accursed may his memory blacken, 
If a coward there be that would slacken 
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves 

worth 
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. 
Strike home, and the world shall revere us 
As heroes descended from heroes. 

Old Greece lightens up with emotion 
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean ; 
Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, 
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring: 
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, 
That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness ;- 
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white- 
waving arms, 
Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms, 
When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. 




" Old Greece lightens up with emotion 
Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean ; 



While our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms, 

Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms, 

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens 

Shall have purpled the beak of our ravens." p. 166 



ODE TO WINTER. 



When first the fiery-mantled sun 
His heavenly race began to run ; 
Round the earth and ocean blue 
His children four the Seasons flew. 
First, in green apparel dancing, 

The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; 
Rosy Summer next advancing 

Rush'd into her sire's embrace : — 
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to his smiles, 
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, 

On India's citron-cover'd isles : 
More remote and buxom-brown, 

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
But howling Winter fled afar, 
To hills that prop the polar star, 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
With barren Darkness by his side, 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 

Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
Round the hall where Runic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale ; 
Save when adown the ravaged globe 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe, 

And trampling on her faded form : — 



168 ODE TO WINTER. 

Till light's returning lord assume 

The shaft that drives him to his polar field, 
Of power to pierce his raven plume 

And crystal-cover'd shield. 

Oh, sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye 
Implores thy dreadful deity, 
Archangel ! power of desolation ! 

Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath mortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart ? 
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, 
And gently rule the ruin'd year ; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, 
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear; — 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, 
And gently on the orphan head 
Of innocence descend. — 

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! 
The sailor on his airy shrouds ; 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
And spectres walk along the deep. 
Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 

Or the dark -brown Danube roars. 
Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan ; 



LINES. 169 

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. 

Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 
May spare the victim fallen low ; 

But man will ask no truce to death, — 
No bounds to human woe.* 

* This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1S0O, before the conclusion 
of hostilities. 



LINES 

SPOKEN BY MRS. P.ARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE FIRST 

OPENING OF THE HOUSE AFTER THE DEATH OF THE 

PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817. 



Britons ! although our task is but to show 

The scenes and passions of fictitious woe, 

Think not we come this night without a part 

In that deep sorrow of the public heart, 

Which like a shade hath darken'd every place, 

And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face ! 

The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles, 

That toll'd a requiem from the solemn aisles, 

For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, 

That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. 

Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas ! 

That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass, 

Which but return sad accents for her now, 

Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow, 



170 LINES. 

Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high 

In bursts of British love and loyalty. 

But. Britain ! now thy chief, thy people mourn. 

And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn : — 

There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt, 

The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt 

A wound that every bosom feels its own, — 

The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown — 

The most beloved and most devoted bride 

Torn from an agonised husband's side, 

Who " long as memory holds her seat" shall view 

That speechless, more than spoken last adieu, 

When the fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith, 

And beam'd affection in the trance of death. 

Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, 

As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd; 

While torch succeeding torch illumed each high 

And banner'd arch of England's chivalry. 

The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall, 

The sacred march, and sable-vested wall, — 

These were not rites of inexpressive show, 

Bat hallow'd as the types of real woe ! 

Daughter of England ! for a nation's sighs, 

A nation's heart, went with thine obsequies ! — 

And oft shall time revert a look of grief 

On thine existence, beautiful and brief. 

Fair spirit ! send thy blessing from above 

On realms where thou art canonised by love ! 

Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind 

The peace that angels lend to human kind ; 

To us who in thy loved remembrance feel 

A sorrowing, but a soul-ennobling zeal — 



REULLURA. 171 

A loyalty that touches all the best 

And loftiest principles of England's breast ! 

Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb — 

Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom ! 

They shall describe thy life — thy form portray ; 

But all the love that mourns thee swept away 

'Tis not in language or expressive arts 

To paint — ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts ! 



REULLURA.* 



Star of the morn and eve, 

Reullura shone like thee, 
And well for her might Aodh grieve, 

The dark-attired Culdee. 
Peace to their shades ! the pure Culdees 

Were Albyn's earliest priests of God, 
Ere yet an island of her seas 

By foot of Saxon monk was trod, 
Long ere her churchmen by bigotry 
Were barr'd from wedlock's holy tie. 
'T was then that Aodh, famed afar, 

In Iona preach'd the word with power, 
And Reullura, beauty's star, 

Was the partner of his bower. 

* Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star." 

15 



172 REULLURA. 

But Aodh, the roof lies low, 

And the thistle-down waves bleaching, 
And the bat flits to and fro 

Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; 
And fallen is each column'd aisle 

Where the chiefs and the people knelt. 
'Twas near that temple's goodly pile 

That honour'd of men they dwelt. 
For Aodh was wise in the sacred law, 
And bright Reullura's eyes oft saw 

The veil of fate uplifted. 
Alas, with what visions of awe 

Her soul in that hour was gifted — 
When pale in the temple and faint, 

With Aodh she stood alone 
By the statue of an aged Saint ! 

Fair sculptured was the stone, 
It bore a crucifix ; 

Fame said it once had graced 
A Christian temple, which the Picts 

In the Britons' land laid waste : 
The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, 

Had hither the holy relic brought. 
Reullura eyed the statue's face, 

And cried, " It is, he shall come, 
Even he, in this very place, 

To avenge my martyrdom. 

For, woe to the Gael people ! 

Ulvfagre is on the main, 
And Iona shall look from tower and steeple 

On the coming ships of the Dane ; 



REULLURA. 173 

And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks 

With the spoilers' grasp entwine ? 
No! some shall have shelter in caves and rocks, 

And the deep sea shall he mine. 
Baffled by me shall the Dane return, 
And here shall his torch in the temple burn, 
Until that holy man shall plough 

The waves from Innisfail. 
His sail is on the deep e'en now, 

And swells to the southern gale." 

" Ah ! knowest thou not, my bride," 

The holy Aodh said, 
" That the Saint whose form we stand beside 

Has for ages slept with the dead ?" 
" He liveth, he liveth," she said again, 

" For the span of his life tenfold extends 
Beyond the wonted years of men. 

He sits by the graves of well-loved friends 
That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth ; 
The oak is decay'd with age on earth, 
Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him ; 

And his parents remember the day of dread 
When the sun on the cross look'd dim, 

And the graves gave up their dead. 
Yet preaching from clime to clime, 

He hath roam'd the earth for ages, 
And hither he shall come in time 

When the wrath of the heathen rages, 
In time a remnant from the sword — 

Ah! but a remnant to deliver; 
Yet, blest be the name of the Lord ! 

His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. 



174 REULLURA. 

Lochlin,* appall'd, shall put up her steel, 
And thou shalt embark on the bounding keel ; 
Safe shalt thou pass through her hundred ships, 

With the Saint and a remnant of the Gael, 
And the Lord will instruct thy lips 

To preach in Innisfail."f 
The sun, now about to set, 

Was burning o'er Tiree, 
And no gathering-cry rose yet 

O'er the isles of Albyn's sea, 
Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip 

Their oars beneath the sun, 
And the phantom of many a Danish ship, 

Where ship there yet was none. 
And the shield of alarm was dumb, 
Nor did their warning till midnight come, 
When watch-fires burst from across the main, 

From Rona, and Uist, and Skye, 
To tell that the ships of the Dane 

And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh. 

Our islemen arose from slumbers, 

And buckled on their arms ; 
But few, alas ! were their numbers 

To Lochlin's mailed swarms. 
And the blade of the bloody Norse 

Has fill'd the shores of the Gael 
With many a floating corse, 

And with many a woman's wail. 
They have lighted the islands with ruin's torch, 
And the holy men of Iona's church 

* Denmark. t Ireland. 



REULLURA. 175 

In the temple of God lay slain ; 

All but Aodh, the last Culdee, 
But bound with many an iron chain, 

Bound in that church was he. 
And where is Aodh's bride ? 

Rocks of the ocean flood ! 
Plunged she not from your heights in pride, 

And mock'd the men of blood ? 
Then Ulvfagre and his bands 

In the temple lighted their banquet up, 
And the print of their blood-red hands 

Was left on the altar cup. 
Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, 
" Tell where thy church's treasure 's laid, 
Or I'll hew thee limb from limb." 

As he spoke the bell struck three, 
And every torch grew dim 

That lighted their revelry. 

But the torches again burnt bright, 

And brighter than before, 
When an aged man of majestic height 

Enter'd the temple door. 
Hush'd was the revellers' sound, 

They were struck as mute as the dead, 
And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound 

Of his footsteps' measured tread. 
Nor word was spoken by one beholder, 
Whilst he flung his white robe back o'er his shoulder, 
And stretching his arms — as eath 

Unriveted Aodh's bands, 
As if the gyves had been a wreath 

Of willows in his hands. 



176 REULLURA. 

All saw the stranger's similitude 

To the ancient statue's form ; 
The Saint before his own image stood, 

And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm. 
Then up rose the Danes at last to deliver 

Their chief, and shouting with one accord, 
They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, 

They lifted the spear and sword, 
And levell'd their spears in rows. 
But down went axes and spears and bows, 
When the Saint with his crosier sign'd, 

The archer's hand on the string was stopp'd, 
And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, 

Their lifted weapons dropp'd. 
The Saint then gave a signal mute, 

And though Ulvfagre will'd it not, 
He came and stood at the statue's foot, 

Spell-riveted to the spot, 
Till hands invisible shook the wall, 

And the tottering image was dash'd 
Down from its lofty pedestal : 

On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd — 
Helmet, and skull, and flesh, and brain, 
It crush'd as millstones crush the grain. 
Then spoke the Saint, whilst all and each 

Of the heathen trembled round, 
And the pauses amidst his speech 

Were as awful as the sound : 

" Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," (he cried,) 

" And tell the nations abroad, 
How the fiercest of your herd has died 

That slaughter'd the flock of God. 



REULLURA. 177 

Gather him bone by bone, 

And take with you o'er the flood 
The fragments of that avenging stone 

That drank his heathen blood. 
These are the spoils from Iona's sack, 

The only spoils ye shall carry back ; 
For the hand that uplifteth spear or sword 

Shall be wither'd by palsy's shock, 
And I come in the name of the Lord 

To deliver a remnant of his flock." 

A remnant was call'd together, 

A doleful remnant of the Gael, 
And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither 

Took the mourners to Innisfail. 
Unscathed they left Iona's strand, 

When the opal morn first flush'd the sky, 
For the Norse dropp'd spear, and bow, and brand, 

And look'd on them silently ; 
Safe from their hiding-places came 
Orphans and mothers, child and dame : 
But, alas ! when the search for Reullura spread, 

No answering voice was given, 
For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, 

And her spirit was in heaven 



THE TURKISH LADY. 



'Twas the hour when rites unholy 
Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer, 

And the star that faded slowly 
Left to dews the freshen'd air. 

Day her sultry fires had wasted, 

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose ; 

Ev'n a captive spirit tasted 
Half oblivion of his woes. 

Then 'twas from an Emir's palace 
Came an Eastern lady bright : 

She, in spite of tyrants jealous, 
Saw and loved an English knight. 

" Tell me, captive, why in anguish 
Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, 

Where poor Christians as they languish 
Hear no sound of Sabbath bell V — 

"'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat. 

When the Crescent shone afar, 
Like a pale disastrous planet 

O'er the purple tide of war — 

In that day of desolation, 

Lady, I was captive made ; 
Bleeding for my Christian nation 

By the walls of high Belgrade." 



THE BRAVE ROLAND. 179 

" Captive ! could the brightest jewel 

From my turban set thee free ?" 
" Lady, no ! — the gift were cruel, 

Ransom'd, yet if reft of thee. 

Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee 
Christian climes should we behold ?" — 

" Nay, bold knight ! I would not leave thee 
Were thy ransom paid in gold !" 

Now in Heaven's blue expansion 

Rose the midnight star to view, 
When to quit her father's mansion 

Thrice she wept, and bade adieu ! 

"Fly we then, while none discover! 

Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride !" — 
Soon at Rhodes the British lover 

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride. 



THE BRAVE ROLAND. 



The brave Roland ! — the brave Roland ! — • 
False tidings reach'd the Rhenish strand 

That he had fallen in fight ; 
And thy faithful bosom swoon'd with pain, 
O loveliest maiden of Allemayne ! 

For the loss of thine own true knight. 



180 THE BRAVE ROLAND. 

But why so rash has she ta'en the veil, 
In yon Nonnenwerder's cloisters pale ? 

For her vow had scarce been sworn, 
And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, 
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung — 

'T was her own dear warrior's horn ! 

Woe ! woe ! each heart shall bleed — shall break 
She would have hung upon his neck, 

Had he come but yester-even ; 
And he had clasp'd those peerless charms, 
That shall never, never fill his arms, 

Or meet him but in Heaven. 

Yet Roland the brave — Roland the true- - 
He could not bid that spot adieu ; 

It was dear still 'midst his woes ; 
For he loved to breathe the neighbouring air, 
And to think she bless'd him in her prayer, 

When the Halleluiah rose. 

There 's yet one window of that pile 
Which he built above the Nuns' green isle ; 

Thence sad and oft look'd he 
(When the chant and organ sounded slow) 
On the mansion of his love below, 

For herself he might not see. 

She died! — He sought the battle-plain; 
Her image fill'd his dying brain, 

When he fell and vvish'd to fall : 




■ " her vow had scarce been sworn, 

And the fatal mantle o'er her flung, 
When the Drachenfels to a trumpet rung — 
'Twas her own dear warrior's horn !" 



p. 180. 



THE SCEPTRE BOAT. 181 

And her name was in his latest sigh, 
When Roland, the flower of chivalry, 
Expired at Roncevall. 



THE SPECTRE BOAT. 

A BALLAD. 



Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid 

forlorn, 
Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing 

cheek from scorn. 
One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted 

bower of love, 
Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the 

birds sang sweet above. 

But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's 
dismal view, 

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's 
delicious hue. 

What more he dreamt, he told to none; but shudder- 
ing, pale, and dumb, 

Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew his 
hour was come. 

'Twas now the dead watch of the night — the helm 

was lash'd a-lee, 
And the ship rode where Mount iEtna lights the deep 

Levantine sea; 



182 SONG. 

When beneath its glare a boat came, rovv'd by a 

woman in her shroud, 
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood 

up and spoke aloud : — 

" Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders 

unforgiven ! 
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my 

peace with Heaven !" 
It was in vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to 

meet her call, 
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing 

serpent's thrall. 

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted 

from the sight, 
For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with 

hideous light; 
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of 

her hand, 
And round they went, and down they went, as the 

cock crew from the land. 



SONG. 

Oh, how hard it is to find 

The one just suited to our mind ; 

And if that one should be 
False, unkind, or found too late, 
What can we do but sigh at fate, 

And sing Woe's me — Woe's me! 



THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS 183 

Love's a boundless burning waste, 
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste, 

And still more seldom flee 
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings; 
Yet somehow Love a something brings 

That's sweet — ev'n when we sigh ' Woe's me !' 



THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS 

ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 



If any white-wing'd Power above 
My joys and griefs survey, 

The clay when thou wert bora, my love- 
He surely bless'd that day. 

I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told 

Of Beauty's magic powers, 
That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold, 

And changed its weeds to flowers. 

My mind had lovely shapes portray'd ; 

But thought I earth had one 
Could make even Fancy's visions fade 

Like stars before the sun ? 

I gazed, and felt upon my lips 
The unfinish'd accents hang : 

One moment's bliss, one burning kiss, 
To rapture changed each pang. 



184 LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 

And though as swift as lightning's flash 
Those tranced moments flew, 

Not all the waves of time shall wash 
Their memory from my view. ' 

But duly shall my raptured song, 

And gladly shall my eyes, 
Still bless this day's return, as long 

As thou shalt see it rise. 



LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 



By strangers left upon a lonely shore, 

Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead ; 
For child to weep, or widow to deplore, 

There never came to his unburiecl head : — 

All from his dreary habitation fled. 
Nor will the lantern'd fisherman at eve 

Launch on that water by the witches' tower, 
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave 

Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower 

For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour. 

They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate ! 

Whose crime it was, on Life's unfinish'd road, 
To feel the step-dame buffetings of fate, 

And render back thy being's heavy load. 

Ah ! once, perhaps, the social passions glow'd 



LINES. - 135 

In thy demoted bosom — and the hand 

That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone 

To deeds of mercy. Who may understand 
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown ? — 
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. 



LINES 



ON RECEIVING A SEAL WITH THE CAMPBELL CREST, FROM K. M — , BEFORE 
HER MARRIAGE. 



This wax returns not back more fair 
Th' impression of the gift you send, 

Than stamp'd upon my thoughts I bear 
The image of your worth, my friend !- 

We are not friends of yesterday ; — 

But poets' fancies are a little 
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,) — 

By turns impressible and brittle. 

Well ! should its frailty e'er condemn 
My heart to prize or please you less, 

Your type is still the sealing gem, 
And mine the waxen brittleness. 

What transcripts of my weal and woe 
This little signet yet may lock, — 

What utterances to friend or foe, 
In reason's calm or passion's shock ' 
16 



186 LINES. 

What scenes of life's yet curtain'd page 

May own its confidential die, 
Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page, 

And feelings of futurity. 

Yet wheresoe'er my pen I lift 

To date the epistolary sheet, 
The blest occasion of the gift 

Shall make its recollection sweet ; 

Sent when the star that rules your fates 
Hath reach'd its influence most benign — 

When every heart congratulates, 
And none more cordially than mine. 

So speed my song — mark'd with the crest 
That erst the advent'rous Norman wore, 

Who won the Lady of the West, 
The daughter of Macaillan Mor. 



■»' 



Crest of my sires ! whose blood is seal'd 
With glory in the strife of swords, 

Ne'er may the scroll that bears it yield 
Degenerate thoughts or faithless words ! 

Yet little might I prize the stone, 
If it but typed the feudal tree 

From whence, a scatter'd leaf, I'm blown 
In Fortune's mutability. 

No ! — but it tells me of a heart 
Allied by friendship's living tie ; 

A prize beyond the herald's art — 
Our soul-sprung consanguinity ! 



GILDEROY. 187 

Kath'rine ! to many an hour of mine 
Light wings and sunshine you have lent; 

And so adieu, and still be thine 
The all-in-all' of life — Content! 



GILDEROY. 



The last, the fatal hour is come, 
That bears my love from me : 

I hear the dead note of the drum, 
I mark the gallows' tree ! 

The bell has toll'd ; it shakes my heart ; 

The trumpet speaks thy name ; 
And must my Gilderoy depart 

To bear a death of shame ? 

No bosom trembles for thy doom ; 

No mourner wipes a tear; 
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb, 

The sledge is all thy bier. 

Oh, Gilderoy ! bethought we then 

So soon, so sad to part, 
When first in Roslin's love"ly glen 

You triumph'd o'er my heart ? 

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen, 
Your hunter garb was trim ; 

And graceful was the ribbon green 
That bound your manly limb ! 



188 GILDEROl. 

Ah ! little thought I to deplore 
Those limbs in fetters bound ; 

Or hear, upon the scaffold floor, 
The midnight hammer sound. 

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined 

The guiltless to pursue ; 
My Gilderoy was ever kind, 

He could not injure you ! 

A long adieu ! but where shall fly 

Thy widow all forlorn, 
When every mean and cruel eye 

Regards my woe with scorn ! 

Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears, 
And hate thine orphan boy; 

Alas ! his infant beauty wears 
The form of Gilderoy. 

Then will I seek the dreary mound 
That wraps thy mouldering clay, 

And weep and linger on the ground, 
And sigh my heart away. 



STANZAS 



ON THE THREATENED INVASION. 
1803. 



Our bosoms we'll bare for the glorious strife, 

And our oath is recorded on high, 
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, 

Or crush'd in its ruins to die ! 
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, 
And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trust — 
God bless the green Isle of the brave ! 

Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, 
It would rouse the old dead from their grave ! 

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, 

And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide, 

Profaning its loves and its charms ? 
Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our side ? 

To arms ! oh, my Country, to arms ! 
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, 
And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen ! — No ! 

His head to the sword shall be given — 
A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe, 

And his blood be an offering to Heaven ! 
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand, 
And swear to prevail in your dear native land ! 



THE WOUNDED HUSSAR. 



Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube 
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : — 

"Oh whither," she cried, "hast thou wander'd, my 
lover, 
Or here dost thou 'welter and bleed on the shore ? 

What voice did I hear ? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd !" 
All mournful she hastened, nor wander'd she far, 

When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, 
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar ! 

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was 
streaming, 

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar! 
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, 

That melted in love, and that kindled in war ! 

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight ! 

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war ! 
"Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful 
night, 

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ?" 

"Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy 
relieving 

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn !" — 
" Ah, no ! the last pang of my bosom is heaving ! 

No light of the morn shall tr Henry return ! 



ADELG1THA. 191 

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! 

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar !" — 
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, 

When he sunk in her arms — the poor wounded 
Hussar ! 



ADELGITHA. 



The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, 

And sad pale Adelgitha. came, 
When forth a valiant champion bounded, 

And slew the slanderer of her fame. 

She wept, deliver'd from her danger ; 

But when he knelt to claim her glove — 
"Seek not," she cried, "oh! gallant stranger, 

For hapless Adelgitha's love. 

" For he is in a foreign far land 

Whose arm should now have set me free ; 
And I must wear the willow garland 

For him that's dead, or false to me." 

"Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted !" — 
He raised his vizor — At the sight 

She fell into his arms and fainted ; 
It was indeed her own true knight : 



THE RITTER BANN 



The Ritter Bann from Hungary 
Came back, renown'd in arms, 

But scorning jousts of chivalry, 
And love and ladies' charms. 

While other knights held revels, he 
Was wrapt in thoughts of gloom, 

And in Vienna's hostelrie 
Slow paced his lonely room. 

There enter'd one whose face he knew,- 
Whose voice, he was aware, 

He oft at mass had listen'd to, 
In the holy house of prayer. 

'T was the abbot of St. James's monks, 

A fresh and fair old man : 
His reverend air arrested even 

The gloomy Ritter Bann. 

But seeing with him an ancient dame 

Come clad in Scotch attire, 
The Ritter's colour went and came, 

And loud he spoke in ire. 

" Ha ! nurse of her that was my bane, 

Name not her name to me ; 
I wish it blotted from my brain : 

Art poor ? — take alms, and flee." 



THE RITTER BANN. 193 

" Sir Knight/' the abbot interposed, 

" This case your ear demands ;" 
And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed 

In both her trembling hands : 

" Remember, each his sentence waits ; 

And he that shall rebut 
Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gate 

Of Mercy shall be shut. 

You wedded, undispensed by Church, 

Your cousin Jane in Spring; — 
In Autumrr, when you went to search 

For churchmen's pardoning, 

Her house denounced your marriage-band, 

Betrothed her to De Grey, 
And the ring you put upon her hand 

Was wrench'd by force away. 

Then wept your Jane upon my neck, 

Crying, ' Help me, nurse, to flee 
To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills ;" 

But word arrived — ah me ! — 

^You were not there; and 'twas their threat, 
By foul means or by fair, 
To-morrow morning was to set 
The seal on her despair. 

I had a son, a sea-boy, in 

A ship at Hartland Bay ; 
By his aid from her cruel kin 

I bore my bird away. 
L2 



194 THE RITTER BANN 

To Scotland from the Devon's 

Green myrtle shores we fled; 
And the Hand that sent the ravens 

To Elijah gave us bread. 

She wrote you by my son, but he 

From England sent us word 
You had gone into some far countrie, 

In grief and gloom he heard. 

For they that wrong'd you, to elude 

. Your wrath, defamed my child ; 
And you — ay, blush, Sir, as you should— 
Believed, and were beguiled. 

To die but at your feet, she vow'd, 

To roam the world ; and we 
Would both have sped and begg'd our bread, 

But so it might not be. 

For when the snow-storm beat our roof 

She bore a boy, Sir Bann, 
Who grew as fair your likeness' proof 

As child e'er grew like man. 

'Twas smiling on that babe one morn 
While heath bloom'd on the moor, 

Her beauty struck young Lord Kinghorn 
As he hunted past our door. 

She shunn'd him, but he raved of Jane, 
And roused his mother's pride : 

Who came to us in high disdain, — 
' And where's the face,' she cried, 



THE RITTER BANN. 195 

' Has witch'd my boy to wish for one 

So wretched for his wife ? — 
Dost love thy husband ? Know, my son 

Has sworn to seek his life.' 

Her anger sore dismay'd us, 

For our mite was wearing scant, 
And, unless that dame would aid us, 

There was none to aid our want. 

So I told her, weeping bitterly, 

What all our woes had been; 
And, though she was a stern ladie, 

The tears stood in her een. 

And she housed us both, when, cheerfully, 

My child to her had sworn, 
That even if made a widow, she 

Would never wed Kinghorn." 



*& j 



Here paused the nurse, and then began 

The abbot, standing by : — 
" Three months ago a wounded man 

To our abbey came to die. 

He heard me long, with ghastly eyes 
And hand obdurate clench'd, 

Spoke of the worm that never dies, 
And the fire that is not quench'd 

At last by what this scroll attests 

He left atonement brief, 
For years of anguish to the breasts 

His guilt had wrung with grief. 



196 THE HITTER BANN. 

' There lived,' he said, ' a fair young dame 

Beneath nly mother's roof; 
I loved her, but against my flame 

Her purity was proof. 

I feign'd repentance, friendship pure ; 

That mood she did not check, 
But let her husband's miniature 

Be copied from her neck, 

As means to search him ; my deceit 
Took care to him was borne 

Naught but his picture's counterfeit, 
And Jane's reported scorn. 

The treachery took : she waited wild ; 

My slave came back and lied 
Whate'er I wish'd ; she clasp'd her child, 

And swoon'd, and all but died. 

I felt her tears for years and years 
Quench not my flame, but stir ; 

The very hate I bore her mate 
Increased my love for her. 

Fame told us of his glory, while 
Joy flush'd the face of Jane ; 

And while she bless'd his name, her smile 
Struck fire into my brain. 

No fears could damp ; I reach'd the camp, 

Sought out its champion ; 
And if my broad-sword fail'd at last, 

'Twas long and well laid,on. 



THE HITTER BANN. 197 

This wound's my meed, my name 's Kinghorn, 

My foe 's the Ritter Bann.' 

The wafer to his lips was borne, 

And we shrived the dying man. 

He died not till you went to fight 

The Turks at Warradein ; 
But I see my tale has changed you pale." — 

The abbot went for wine ; 

And brought a little page who pour'd 

It out, and knelt and smiled ; — 
The stunn'd knight saw himself restored 

To childhood in his child ; 

And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, 

Laugh'd loud and wept anon, 
And with a shower of kisses prest 

The darling little one. 

" And where went Jane ?" — "To a nunnery, Sir — 

Look not again so pale — 
Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her." — 

" And has she ta'en the veil V — 

" Sit down, Sir," said the priest, " I bar 
Rash words." — They sat all three, 

And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, 
As he kept him on his knee. 

" Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," 

The abbot further said ; 
" Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face 

More deep than cloister's shade. 



198 SONG. 

Grief may have made her what you can 
Scarce love perhaps for life." 

" Hush, abbot !" cried the Ritter Bann, 
" Or tell me where 's my wife." 

The priest undid two doors that hid 

The inn's adjacent room, 
And there a lovely woman stood, 

Tears bathed her beauty's bloom. 

One moment may with bliss repay 
Unnumber'd hours of pain ; 

Such was the throb and mutual sob 
Of the knight embracing Jane. 



SONG. 

When Napoleon was flying 
From the field of Waterloo, 

A British soldier dying 

To his brother bade adieu ! 

" And take," he said, " this token 
To the maid that owns my faith, 

With the words that I have spoken 
In affection's latest breath." 

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart, 
When the youth beside him fell ; 

But the trumpet w 7 arn'd to part, 
And they took a sad farewell. 



SONG. 



199 



There was many a friend to lose him, 
For that gallant soldier sigh'd ; 

But the maiden of his bosom 

Wept when all their tears were dried. * 



SONG. 



"MEN OF ENGLAND." 



Men of England ! who inherit 

Rights that cost your sires their blood ! 
Men whose undegenerate spirit 

Has been proved on fields and flood : — 



By the foes you Ve fought uncounted, 
By the glorious deeds ye 've done, 
Trophies captured — breaches mounted, 



Navies conquer'd- 



-kingdoms won ! 



Yet, remember, England gathers 
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame, 

If the freedom of your fathers 

Glow not in your hearts the same. 



What are monuments of bravery, 
Where no public virtues bloom ? 

What avail in lands of slavery 

Trophied temples, arch, and tomb ? 



200 SONG. 

Pageants ! — Let the world revere us 
For our people's rights and laws, 
And the breasts of civic heroes 
Bared in Freedom's holy cause. 

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, 
Sidney's matchless shade is yours, — 

Martyrs in heroic story, 

Worth a hundred Agin courts ! 

We 're the sons of sires that baffled 
Crovvn'd and mitred tyranny ; — 

They defied the field and scaffold 
For their birthrights — so will we ! 



SONG. 

TO THE EVENING STAR. 



Star that bringest home the bee, 
And sett'st the weary labourer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, 

That send'st it from above, 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies, 
Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, 

And songs, when toil is done, 
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd 

Curls yellow in the sun. 



THE HARPER. 201 

Star of love's soft interviews, 
Parted lovers on thee muse ; 
Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art, 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 



THE HARPEU. 



On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was 
nigh, 
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; 
No harp like my own could so cheerily play, 
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. 

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, 
She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) 
Oh ! remember your Sheelah when far, far away: 
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. 

Poor dog ! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, 
And he constantly loved me, although 1 was poor; 
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, 
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. 

When the road was so dark, and the night was so 
cold, 
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, 
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, 
And he lick'd me for kindness — my poor dog Tray. 

17 



202 LOVE AND MADNESS. 

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case, 
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; 
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, 
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. 

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ? 
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind 1 
To my sweet native village, so far, far away, 
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. 



LOVE AND MADNESS. 

AN ELEGY. 
WRITTEN IN 1795. 



Hark! from the battlements of yonder tower* 
The solemn bell has tolPd the midnight hour! 
Roused from drear visions of distemper'd sleep, 
Poor B k wakes — in solitude to weep ! 

" Cease, Memory, cease (the friendless mourner cried,] 
To probe the bosom too severely tried ! 
Oh ! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray 
Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day, 
When youthful Hope, the music of the mind, 
Tuned all its charms, and E n was kind ! 

* Warwick Castle. 



LOVE AND MADNESS. 203 

Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame, 
In sighs to speak thy melancholy name ! 
I hear thy spirit wail in every storm ! 
In midnight shades I view thy passing form ! 
Pale as in that sad hour when doom'd to feel, 
Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel! 

Demons of Vengeance ! ye at whose command 
1 grasp'd the sword with more than woman's hand, 
Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control, 
Or horror damp the purpose of my soul? 
No ! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan, 
Till Hate fulfill'd what baffled Love began ! 

Yes ! let the clay-cold breast that never knew 
One tender pang to generous Nature true, 
Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn, 
Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn ! 

And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, 
Save Rapture's homage to your conscious charms ! 
Delighted idols of a gaudy train, 
111 can your blunter feelings guess the pain, 
When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove 
Friendship refined, the calm delight of Love, 
Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn, 
And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn ! 

Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, 
When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover ! bleed ? 
Long had I watch'd thy dark foreboding brow, 
What time thy bosom scorn'd its dearest vow ! 



204 LOVE AND MADNESS. 

Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, 
Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, 
Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, 
I wander'd hopeless, friendless, and alone ! 

Oh ! righteous Heaven ! 'twas then my tortured soul 
First gave to wrath unlimited control ! 
Adieu the silent look ! the streaming eye ! 
The murmur'd plaint ! the deep heart-heaving sigh ! 

Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to better deeds ; 
He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds ! 
Now the last laugh of agony is o'er, 
And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more ! 

'Tis done ! the flame of hate no longer burns : 
Nature relents, but, ah ! too late returns ! 
Why does my soul this gush of fondness feel ? 
Trembling and faint, I drop the guilty steel ! 
Cold on my heart the hand of terror lies, 
And shades of horror close my languid eyes ! 

Oh ! 'twas a deed of Murder's deepest grain ! 

Could B k's soul so true to wrath remain ? 

A friend long true, a once fond lover fell ! — 
Where Love was foster'd could not Pity dwell ? 

Unhappy youth ! while yon pale crescent glows 
To watch on silent Nature's deep repose, 
Thy sleepless spirit, breathing from the tomb, 
Foretels my fate, and summons me to come ! 
Once more I see thy sheeted spectre stand, 
Roll the dim eye, and wave the paly hand ! 



LINES. 205 

Soon may this fluttering spark of vital flame 
Forsake its languid melancholy frame ! 
Soon may these eyes their trembling lustre close, 
Welcome the dreamless night of long repose ! 
Soon may this woe-worn spirit seek the bourne 
Where, lull'd to slumber, Grief forgets to mourn !" 



LINES 

INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY, 

Which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. Campbell, K. C. 15., 
to the memory of her Husband. 



To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, 
Fulfill'd the hero's and the patriot's part, — 
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd, 
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined, — 
This stone is rear'd: to public duty true, 
The seaman's friend, the father of his crew — 
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command, 
He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, 
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel, 
What British valour owes to Britain's weal. 
These were his public virtues : — but to trace 
His private life's fair purity and grace, 
To paint the traits that drew affection strong 
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng, 
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim 
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name — 



206 HALLOWED GROUND. 

O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief, 
O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief, 
Save in religion's high and holy trust, 
Whilst placing their memorial o'er Ins dust. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 



What 's hallovv'd ground 1 Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee ? 

That 's hallow'd ground — where, mourn'd and miss'd 

The lips repose our love has kiss'd : 

But where 's their memory's mansion ? ** Is 't 

Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 

A part of ours. 

A kiss can consecrate the ground 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallow'd down to earth's profound, 

And up to Heaven ! 

For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 



HALLOWED GROUND. 

Run molten still in memory's mould; 

And will not cool, 
Uutil the heart itself be cold 

In Lethe's pool. 

What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep > 

Their coral tomb : 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind- 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ? — 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die. 

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? 
He 's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draws : — 
What can alone ennoble fight ? 

A noble cause ! 



207 



Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colours planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 



208 HALLOWED GROUND. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

Where they are not — 
The heart alone can make divine 

Religion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust, 
And pompous rites in domes august ? 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

Belie the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chaunt. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there' s a dome of nobler span, 

A temple given 
Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 

Its space is Heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeling, 
And God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 



SONG. 209 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure ? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above ? 
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What 's hallow'd ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make earth 

All hallow'd ground. 



SONG. 

Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers, 
Whose touch to mine is rapture's spell ; 

Life's joy for us a moment lingers, 

And death seems in the word — Farewell. 

The hour that bids us part and go, 

It sounds not yet, — oh ! no, no, no ! 



210 CAROLINE. 

Time, whilst I gaze upon thy sweetness, 
Flies like a courser nigh the goal ; 

To-morrow where shall be his fleetness, 
When thou art parted from my soul ? 

Our hearts shall beat, our tears shall flow, 

But not together — no, no, no ! 



CAROLINE. 



I'll bid the hyacinth to blow, 
I'll teach my grotto green to be ; 

And sing my true love, all below 
The holly bower and myrtle tree. 

There all his wild- wood sweets to bring, 
The sweet South wind shall wander by, 

And with the music of his wing 
Delight my rustling canopy. 

Come to my close and clustering bower, 
Thou spirit of a milder clime, 

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower, 
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme. 

With all thy rural echoes come, 
Sweet comrade of the rosy day, 

Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, 
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay. 



CAROLINE. 211 

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd, 

Whatever isles of ocean fann'd, 
Come to my blossom-woven shade, 

Thou wandering wind of fairy-land. 

For sure from some enchanted isle, 

Where Heaven and Love their sabbath hold, 
Where pure and happy spirits smile, 

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould : 

From some green Eden of the deep, 
Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved, 

Where tears of rapture lovers weep, 
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived. 

From some sweet paradise afar. 

Thy music wanders, distant, lost — 
Where Nature lights her leading star, 

And love is never, never cross'd. 

Oh gentle gale of Eden bowers, 

If back thy rosy feet should roam, 
To revel with the cloudless Hours 

In Nature's more propitious home, 

Name to thy loved Elysian groves, 

That o'er enchanted spirits twine, 
A fairer form than cherub loves, 

And let the name be Caroline. 



CAROLINE. 

PART II. 
TO THE EVENING STAR. 



Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, 

Companion of retiring day, 
Why at the closing gates of Heaven, 

Beloved star, dost thou delay ? 

So fair thy pensile beauty burns, 

When soft the tear of twilight flows; 

So due thy plighted love returns, 
To chambers brighter than the rose . 

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love, 
So kind a star thou seem'st to be, 

Sure some enamour'd orb above 

Descends and burns to meet with thee. 

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour, 
When all unheavenly passions fly, 

Chased by the soul-subduing power 
Of Love's delicious witchery. 

O ! sacred to the fall of day, 

Queen of propitious stars, appear, 

And early rise, and long delay, 
When Caroline herself is here ! 



CAROLINE. 213 

Shine on her chosen green resort, 

Whose trees the sunward summit crown, 

And wanton flowers, that well may court 
An angel's feet to tread them down. 

Shine on her sweetly-scented road, 
Thou star of evening's purple dome, 

That lead'st the nightingale abroad, 
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath 

Embalms the soft exhaling dew, 
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 

To kiss the cheek of rosy hue. 

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, 

Her silken tresses darkly flow, 
And fall upon her brow so fair, 

Like shadows on the mountain snow. 

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline, 

In converse sweet, to wander far, 
O bring with thee my Caroline, 

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star ! 



THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. 



O leave this barren spot to me ! 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 
Though bush or floweret never grow 
My dark unwarming shade below ; 
Nor summer bud perfume the dew, 
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ! 
IS«»r fruits of autumn, blossom-born, 
My green and glossy leaves adorn ; 
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive ; 
Yet leave this barren spot to me : 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
The sky grow bright, the forest green ; 
And many a wintry wind have stood 
In bloomless, fruitless solitude, 
Since childhood in my pleasant bower 
First spent its sweet and sportive hour, 
Since youthful lovers in my shade 
Their vows of truth and rapture made ; 
And on my trunk's surviving frame 
Carved many a long-forgotten name. 
Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, 
First breathed upon this sacred ground ; 
By all that Love has whisper'd here, 
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear ; 
As Love's own altar honour me : 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 



iSiSfe&C; 











" youthful lovers in my shade 

Their vows of truth and rapture made ; 
And on my trunk's surviving frame 
Carved many a long-forgotten name." 



p. 214. 



♦l 



FIELD FLOWERS. 



Ye field flowers! the garden's eclipse you, 'tis true, 
Yet, wildings of Nature, I doat upon you, 

For ye waft me to summers of old, 
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, 
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, 

Like treasures of silver and gold. 

I love you for lulling me back into dreams 

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams. 

And of birchen glades breathing their balm, 
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, 
And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note 

Made music that sweeten'd the calm. 

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 

Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : 

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, 

And your blossoms were part of her spell. 

Even now what affections the violet awakes; 

What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes 

Can the wild water-lily restore ; 

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, 

And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks, 

In the vetches that tangled their shore. 
18 



216 STANZAS TO PAINTING. 

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, 

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age. 

And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 



STANZAS TO PAINTING. 



O thou by whose expressive art 
Her perfect image Nature sees 

In union with the Graces start, 
And sweeter by reflection please 



In whose creative hand the hues 
Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; 

I bless thee, Promethean Muse ! 
And call thee brightest of the Nine ! 



'»■ 



Possessing more than vocal power, 
Persuasive more than poet's tongue ; 

Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, 
From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung ; 

Does Hope her high possession meet ? 

Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown ? 
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, 

When all we lo\ r e is all our own. 



STANZAS TO PAINTING. 217 

But oh ! thou pulse of pleasure dear, 
Slow-throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; 

Lone absence plants a pang severe, 
Or death inflicts a keener dart. 

Then for a beam of joy to light 
In memory's sad and wakeful eye ! 

Or banish from the noon of night 
Her dreams of deeper agony. 

Shall Song its witching cadence roll ? 

Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, 
That breathed when soul was knit to soul, 

And heart to heart responsive beat ? 

What visions rise ! to charm, to melt ! 

The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! 
Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt ! 

And cease that solace too severe ! 

But thou, serenely silent art ! 

By heaven and love was taught to lend 
A milder solace to the heart, 

The sacred image of a friend. 

All is not lost ! if, yet possest, 

To me that sweet memorial shine : — 

If close and closer to my breast 
I hold that idol all divine. 

Or, gazing through luxurious tears, 
Melt o'er the loved departed form, 

Till death's cold bosom half appears 
With life, and speech, and spirit warm. 



218 ABSENCE. 

She looks ! she lives ! this tranced hour, 
Her bright eye seems a purer gem 

Than sparkles on the throne of power, 
Or glory's wealthy diadem. 

Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid 
A treasure to my soul has given, 

Where beauty's canonized shade 

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. 

No spectre forms of pleasure fled, 

Thy softening, sweetening, tints restore; 

For thou canst give us back the dead, 
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore. 

Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, 
Whose hand her perish'd grace redeems ' 

Whose tablets of a thousand hues 
The mirror of creation seems. 

From Love began thy high descent ; 

And lovers, charm'd by gifts of thine 
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent ; 

And call thee brightest of the Nine ! 



ABSENCE. 



'Tis not the loss of love's assurance, 
It is not doubting what thou art, 

But 'tis the too, too long endurance 
Of absence, that afflicts my heart. 



THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 219 

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish, 
When each is lonely doom'd to weep, 

Are fruits on desert isles that perish, 
Or riches buried in the deep. 

What though, untouch'd by jealous madness. 

Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ; 
TV undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness, 

Is but more slowly doom'd to break. 

Absence ! is not the soul torn by it 

From more than light, or life, or breath ? 

*T is Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,— 
The pain without the peace of death ! 



THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 



Never wedding, ever wooing, 
Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, 
Read you not the wrong you're doing 

In my cheek's pale hue 1 
All my life with sorrow strewing, 

Wed, or cease to woo. 

Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, 
Still our days are disunited ; 
Now the lamp of hope is lighted, 

Now half quench'd appears, 
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted 

'Midst my sighs and tears. 



220 STANZAS. 

Charms you call your clearest blessing, 
Lips that thrill at your caressing, 
Eyes a mutual soul confessing, 

Soon you'll make them grow 
Dim, and worthless your possessing, 

Not with age but woe 



STANZAS 

ON THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO. 



Hearts of oak that have bravely deliver'd the brave 
And uplifted old Greece from the brink of the grave, 
'Twas the helpless to help, and the hopeless to save, 

That your thunderbolts swept o'er the brine : 
And as long as yon sun shall look down on the wave 

The light of your glory shall shine. 

For the guerdon ye sought with your bloodshed and toil, 
Was it slaves, or dominion, or rapine, or spoil ? 
No ! your lofty emprise was to fetter and foil 

The uprooter of Greece's domain ! 
When he tore the last remnant of food from her soil, 

Till her famish'd sank pale as the slain ! 

Yet, Navarin's heroes ! does Christendom breed 

The base hearts that will question the fame of yom 

deed? 
Are they men ? — let ineffable scorn be their meed, 



STANZAS. 221 

And oblivion shadow their graves ! — 
Are they women ? — to Turkish serails let them speed ; 
And be mothers of Mussulman slaves. 

Abettors of massacre ! dare ye deplore 

That the death-shriek is silenced on Hellas's shore ? 

That the mother aghast sees her offspring no more 

By the hand of Infanticide grasp'd ? 
And that stretch'd on yon billows distain'd by their 
gore 

Missolonghi's assassins have gasp'd ? 

Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, 
Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the 

wind, 
And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, 

Their watch-word, humanity's vow : 
Not -a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind 

Owes a garland to honour his brow ! 

Nor grudge, by our side, that to conquer or fall 
Came the hardy rude Russ, and the high-mettled Gaul : 
For whose was the genius, that plann'd at its call, 

Where the whirlwind of battle should roll ? 
All were brave ! but the star of success over all 

Was the light of our Codrington's soul. 

That star of thy day-spring, regenerate Greek ! 
Diinm'd the Saracen's moon, and struck pallid his 

cheek : 
In its fast flushing morning thy Muses shall speak 

When their lore and their lutes they reclaim: 
t \nd the first of their songs from Parnassus's peak 

Shall be " Glory to Codrington's name''' 



LINES ON REVISITING A SCOTTISH RIVER. 



And call they this Improvement? — to have changed, 
My native Clyde, thy once romantic shore, 
Where Nature's face is banish'd and estranged, 
And Heaven reflected in thy wave no more; 
Whose banks, that sweeten'd May-day's breath before, 
Lies sere and leafless now in summer's beam, 
With sooty exhalations cover'd o'er ; 
And for tlie daisied green sward, down thy stream 
Unsightly brick-lanes smoke, and clanking engines 
gleam. 

Speak not to me of swarms the scene sustains; 

One heart free tasting Nature's breath and bloom 

Is worth a thousand slaves to Mammon's gains. 

But whither goes that wealth, and gladdening whom? 

See, left but life enough and breathing-room 

The hunger and the hope of life to feel, 

Yon pale Mechanic bending o'er his loom, 

And Childhood's self as at Ixion's wheel, 

From morn till midnight task'd to earn its little meal. 

Is this Improvement ? — where the human breed 

Degenerate as they swarm and overflow, 

Till Toil grows cheaper than the trodden weed, 

And man competes with man, like foe with foe, 

Till Death, that thins them, scarce seems public woe? 

Improvement ! — smiles it in the poor man's eyes, 

Or blooms it on the cheek of Labour ? — No — 

To gorge a few with Trade's precarious prize, 

We banish rural life, and breathe unwholesome skies. 



THE "NAME UNKNOWN." 223 

Nor call that evil slight ; God has not given 

This passion to the heart of man in vain 

For Earth's green face, th' untainted air of Heaven, 

And all the bliss of Nature's rustic reign. 

For not alone our frame imbibes a stain 

From foetid skies ; the spirit's healthy pride 

Fades in their gloom — And therefore I complain, 

That thou no more through pastoral scenes should st 

glide, 
My Wallace's own stream, and once romantic Clyde ! 



THE "NAME UNKNOWN/' 



IN IMITATION OF KLOPSTOCK. 



Prophetic pencil ! wilt thou trace 
A faithful image of the face, 

Or wilt thou write the 'Name Unknown/ 
Ordain'd to bless my charmed soul, 
And all my future fate control, 

Unrivall'd and alone ? 

Delicious Idol of my thought ! 
Though sylph or spirit hath not taught 

My boding heart thy precious name ; 
Yet musing on my distant fate, 
To charms unseen I consecrate 

A visionary flame. 



224 LINES 

Thy rosy blush, thy meaning eye, 
Thy virgin voice of melody, 

Are ever present to my heart ; 
Thy murmur'd vows shall yet be mine, 
My thrilling hand shall meet with thine, 

And never, never part ! 

Then fly, my days, on rapid wing, 
Till Love the viewless treasure bring ; 

While I, like conscious Athens, own 
A power in mystic silence seal'd, 
A guardian angel unreveal'd, 

And bless the ' Name Unknown !' 



LINES 

ON THE CAMP HILL, NEAR HASTINGS. 



In the deep blue of eve, 
Ere the twinkling of stars had begun, 

Or the lark took his leave 
Of the skies and the sweet setting sun, 

I climb'd to yon heights, 
Where the Norman encamp'd him of old, 

With his bowmen and knights, 
And his banner all burnish'd with gold. 

At the Conqueror's side 
There his minstrelsy sat harp in hand, 

In pavilion wide ; 
And they chaunted the deeds of Roland. 




" I climb'd to yon heights, 
Where the Norman encamp'd him of old, 

With his bowmen and knights, 
And his banner all burmsh'd with gold." 



p. 224 



FAREWELL TO LOVE. 225 

Still the ramparted ground 
With a vision my fancy inspires, 

And I hear the trump sound, 
As it marshall'd our Chivalry's sires. 

On each turf of that mead 
Stood the captors of England's domains, 

That ennobled her breed 
And high-mettled the blood of her veins. 

Over hauberk and helm 
As the sun's setting splendour was thrown, 

Thence they look'd o'er a realm — 
And to-morrow beheld it their own. 



FAREWELL TO LOVE. 



I had a heart that doted once in passion's boundless 

pain, 
And though the tyrant I abjured, I could not break 

his chain ; 
But now that Fancy's fire is quench'd, and ne'er can 

burn anew, 
I've bid to Love, for all my life, adieu ! adieu ! adieu ! 

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's 

thrall, 
And if my song has told them not, my soul has felt 

them all; 



226 LINES ON POLAND. 

But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's 

witching sway 
Is now to me a star that's fall'n — a dream that's pass'd 

away. 

Hail ! welcome tide of life, when no tumultuous billows 

roll, 
How wondrous to myself appears this halcyon calm of 

soul ! 
The wearied bird blown o'er the deep would sooner 

quit its shore, 
Than I would cross the gulf again that time has 

brought me o'er. 

Why say they Angels feel the flame ? — Oh, spirit of 

the sides! 
Can love like ours, that dotes on dust, in heavenly 

bosoms rise ? — 
Ah no ; the hearts that best have felt its power, the 

best can tell, 
That peace on earth itself begins, when Love has bid 

farewell. 



LINES ON POLAND. 



And have I lived to see thee sword in hand 
Uprise again, immortal Polish Land ! — 
Whose flag brings more than chivalry to mind, 
And leaves the tri-color in shade behind ; 



LINES ON POLAND. 227 

A theme for uninspired lips too strong ; 
That swells my heart beyond the power of song : — 
Majestic men, whose deeds have dazzled faith, 
Ah ! yet your fate's suspense arrests my breath ; 
Whilst envying bosoms bared to shot and steel, 
I feel the more that fruitlessly I feel. 

Poles ! with what indignation I endure 
Th' half-pitying servile mouths that call you poor ; 
Poor ! is it England mocks you with her grief, 
Who hates, but dares not chide, th' Imperial Thief? 
France with her soul beneath a Bourbon's thrall, 
And Germany that has no soul at all, — 
States, quailing at the giant overgrown, 
Whom dauntless Poland grapples with alone ! 
No, ye are rich in fame e'en whilst ye bleed : 
We cannot aid you — we are poor indeed ! 
In Fate's defiance — in the world's great eye, 
Poland has won her immortality; 
The Butcher should he reach her bosom now, 
Could not tear Glory's garland from her brow ; 
Wreathed, filleted, the victim falls renown'd, 
And all her ashes will be holy ground ! 

But turn, my soul, from presages so dark : 

Great Poland's spirit is a deathless spark 

That's fann'd by Heaven to mock the Tyrant's rage : 

She, like the eagle, will renew her age, 

And fresh historic plumes of Fame put on, — 

Another Athens after Marathon, — 

Where eloquence shall fulmine, arts refine, 

Bright as her arms that now in battle shine. 



228 LINES ON POLAND. 

Come — should the heavenly shock my life destroy, 
And shut its flood-gates with excess of joy ; 
Come but the day when Poland's fight is won — 
And on my grave-stone shine the morrow's sun — 
The day that sees Warsaw's cathedral glow 
With endless ensigns ravish'd from the foe, — 
Her women lifting their fair hands with thanks, 
Her pious warriors kneeling in their ranks, 
The 'scutcheon'd walls of high heraldic boast, 
The odorous altars' elevated host, 
The organ sounding through the aisles' long glooms. 
The mighty dead seen sculptured o'er their tombs ; 
(John, Europe's saviour — Poniatowski's fair 
Resemblance — Kosciusko's shall be there ;) 
The taper'd pomp — the hallelujah's swell, 
Shall o'er the soul's devotion cast a spell, 
Till visions cross the rapt enthusiast's glance, 
And all the scene becomes a waking trance. 
Should Fate put far — far off that glorious scene, 
And gulfs of havoc interpose between, 
Imagine not, ye men of every clime, 
Who act, or by your sufferance share, the crime — 
Your brother Abel's blood shall vainly plead 
Against the " deep damnation" of the deed. 
Germans, ye view its horror and disgrace 
With cold phosphoric eyes and phlegm of face. 
Is Allernagiie profound in science, lore, 
And minstrel art ? — her shame is but the more 
To doze and dream by governments oppress'd, 
The spirit of a book-worm in each breast. 
Well can ye mouth fair Freedom's classic line, 
And talk of Constitutions o'er your wine : 



LINES ON POLAND. 229 

But all your vows to break the tyrant's yoke 
Expire in Bacchanalian song and smoke : 
Heavens ! can no ray of foresight pierce the leads 
And mystic metaphysics of your heads, 
To show the self-same grave Oppression delves 
For Poland's rights is yawning for yourselves ? 

See, whilst the Pole, the vanguard aid of France, 
Has vaulted on his barb, and couch'd the lance, 
France turns from her abandon'd friends afresh, 
And soothes the bear that prowls for patriot flesh : 
Buys, ignominious purchase ! short repose 
With dying curses and the groans of those 
That served, and loved, and put in her their trust. 
Frenchmen ! the dead accuse you from the dust — 
Brows laurell'd — bosoms mark'd with many a scar 
For France — that wore her Legion's noblest star, 
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death 
On Gallic honour : and this broken faith 
Has robb'd you more of Fame — the life of life — 
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife ! 
And what of England — is she stoop'd so low 
In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so, 
That we must sit much wroth, but timorous more, 
With Murder knocking at our neighbour's door ! — 
Not Murder mask'd and cloak'd, with hidden knife 
Whose owner owes the gallows life for life ; 
But Public Murder ! — that with pomp and gaud, 
And royal scorn of Justice, walks abroad 
To wring more tears and blood than e'er were wrung 
By all the culprits Justice ever hung ! 

19 



230 LINES ON POLAND. 

We read the diadem'd Assassin's vaunt, 

And wince, and wish we had not hearts to pant 

With useless indignation — sigh, and frown, 

But have not hearts to throw the gauntlet down. 

If but a doubt hung o'er the grounds of fray, 

Or trivial rapine stopp'd the world's highway ; 

Were this some common strife of States embroil'd ; — 

Britannia on the spoiler and the spoil'd 

Might calmly look, and, asking time to breathe, 

Still honourably wear her olive wreath. 

But this is Darkness combating with Light : 

Earth's adverse Principles for empire fight : 

Oppression, that has belted half the globe, 

Far as his knout could reach or dagger probe, 

Holds reeking o'er our brother-freemen slain 

That dagger — shakes it at us in disdain ; 

Talks big to Freedom's states of Poland's thrall, 

And, trampling one, contemns them one and all. 

My country ! colours not thy once proud brow 

At this affront ? — Hast thou not fleets enow 

With Glory's streamer, lofty as the lark, 

Gay fluttering o'er each thunder-bearing bark, 

To warm the insulter's seas with barbarous blood, 

And interdict his flag from Ocean's flood ? 

Ev'n now far off the sea-cliff, where I sing, 

I see, my Country and my Patriot King ! 

Your ensign glad the deep. Becalm'd and slow 

A war-ship rides ; while Heaven's prismatic bow 

Uprisen behind her on th' horizon's base, 

Shines flushing through the tackle, shrouds, and stays, 



LINES ON POLAND. 231 

And wraps her giant form in one majestic blaze. 

My soul accepts the omen ; Fancy's eye 

Has sometimes a veracious augury : 

The Rainbow types Heaven's promise to my sight ; 

The Ship, Britannia's interposing Might ! 

But if there should be none to aid you, Poles, 

Ye'll but to prouder pitch wind up your souls, 

Above example, pity, praise, or blame, 

To sow and reap a boundless field of Fame. 

Ask aid no more from Nations that forget 

Your championship — old Europe's mighty debt. 

Though Poland (Lazarus-like) has burst the gloom, 

She rises not a beggar from the tomb : 

In Fortune's frown, on Danger's giddiest brink, 

Despair and Poland's name must never link. 

All ills have bounds — plague, whirlwind, fire, and flood . 

Ev'n Power can spill but bounded sums of blood. 

States caring not what Freedom's price may be, 

May late or soon, but must at last be free ; 

For body-killing tyrants cannot kill 

The public soul — the hereditary will 

That downward, as from sire to son it goes, 

By shifting bosoms more intensely glows : 

Its heir-loom is the heart, and slaughter'd men 

Fight fiercer in their orphans o'er again. 

Poland recasts — though rich in heroes old — 

Her men in more and more heroic mould : 

Her eagle ensign best among mankind 

Becomes, and types her eagle-strength of mind : 

Her praise upon my faltering lips expires : 

Resume it, younger bards, and nobler lyres ! 



A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YEAR. 



The more we live, more brief appear 

Our life's succeeding stages : 
A clay to childhood seems a year, 

And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, 

Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals, lingering like a river smooth 

Along its grassy borders. 

But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, 

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
Ye stars, that measure life to man, 

Why seem your courses quicker ? 

When joys have lost their bloom and breath, 

And life itself is vapid, 
Why, as we reach the Falls of death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid ? 

It may be strange — yet who would change 
Time's course to slower speeding ; 

When one by one our friends have gone, 
And left our bosoms bleeding ? 

Heaven gives our years of fading strength 

Indemnifying fleetness ; 
And those of Youth, a seeming length, 

Proportion'd to their sweetness. 



SONG. 



How delicious is the winning 
Of a kiss at Love's beginning, 
When two mutual hearts are sighing 
For the knot there's no untying ! 

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing, 
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing ; 
Other smiles may make you fickle, 
Tears for other charms may trickle. 

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
Longest stays, when sorest chidden ; 
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden. 

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
Bind its odours to the lily, 
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
Then bind Love to last for ever ! 

Love's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, 

Only free, he soars enraptured. 

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
Or the ringdove's neck from changing ? 
No ! nor fetter'd Love from dying, 
In the knot there's no untying. 



MARGARET AND DORA. 



Margaret's beauteous — Grecian arts 
Ne'er drew form completer, 
Yet why, in my heart of hearts, 
Hold I Dora's sweeter ? 

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue 
Pass all painting's reach, 
Ringdove's notes are discord to 
The music of her speech. 

Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, 
And on canvas show it; 
But for perfect worship leave 
Dora to her poet. 



THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 



So all this gallant blood has gush'd in vain ! 
And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak 
And talons torn, lies prostrated again. 
O British patriots, that were wont to speak 
Once loudly on this theme, now hush'd or meek ! 
O heartless men of Europe — Goth and Gaul, 
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek; — 
That saw the world's lasx land of heroes fall — 
The brand of burning shame is on you all — all — all ! 



THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 235 

But this is not the drama's closing act ! 
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew. 
Nations, mute accessories to the fact ! 
That Upas-tree of power, whose fostering dew 
Was Polish blood, has yet to cast o'er you 
The lengthening shadow of its head elate — 
A deadly shadow, darkening Nature's hue. 
To all that's hallo w'd, righteous, pure and great, 
Wo! wo! when they are reach'd by Russia's withering 
hate. 

Russia, that on his throne of adamant 

Consults wdiat nation's breast shall next be gored : 

He on Polonia's Golgotha will plant 

His standard fresh ; and, horde succeeding horde, 

On patriot tomb-stones he will whet the sword 

For more stupendous slaughters of the free. 

Then Europe's realms, when their best blood is 

pour'd, 
Shall miss thee, Poland ! as they bend the knee, 
All — all in grief, but none in glory, likening thee. 

Why smote ye not the Giant whilst he reel'd ? 

O fair occasion, gone for ever by ! 

To have lock'd his lances in their nothern field, 

Innocuous as the phantom chivalry 

That flames and hurtles from yon boreal sky ! 

Now wave thy pennon, Russia, o'er the land 

Once Poland; build thy bristling castles high; 

Dig dungeons deep ; for Poland's wrested brand 

Is now a weapon new to widen thy command — 



236 THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 

An awful width ! Norwegian woods shall build 
His fleets ; the Swede his vassal, and the Dane ; 
The glebe of fifty kingdoms shall be til I'd 
To feed his dazzling, desolating train, 
Camp'd sumless, 'twixt the Black and Baltic main : 
Brute hosts, I own ; but Sparta could not write, 
And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia's chain : 
So Russia's spirit, midst Sclavonic night, 
Burns with a fire more dread than all your polish'd 
light. 

But Russia's limbs (so blinded statesmen speak) 

Are crude, and too colossal to cohere. 

O lamentable weakness ! reckoning weak 

The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year. 

What implements lacks he for war's career, 

That grows on earth, or in its floods and mines, 

(Eighth sharer of the inhabitable sphere) 

Whom Persia bows to, China ill confines, 

And India's homage waits, when Albion's star declines ! 

But time will teach the Russ, ev'en conquering War 
Has handmaid arts : ay, ay, the Russ will woo 
All sciences that speed Bellona's car, 
All murder's tactic arts, and win them too ; 
But never holier Muses shall imbue 
His breast, that's made of nature's basest clay : 
The sabre, knout, and dungeon's vapour blue 
His laws and ethics : far from him away 
Are all the lovely Nine, that breathe but Freedom's 
day. 



THE POWER OF RUSSIA. 237 

Say, ev'n his serfs, half-humanized, should learn 
Their human rights, — will Mars put out his flame 
In Russian bosoms ? no, he'll bid them burn 
A thousand years for nought but martial fame, 
Like Romans : — yet forgive me, Roman name ! 
Rome could impart what Russia never can ; 
Proud civic rights to salve submission's shame. 
Our strife is coming; but in freedom's van 
The Polish eagle's fall is big with fate to man. 

Proud bird of old ! Mohammed's moon recoil'd 

Before thy swoop : had we been timely bold, 

That swoop, still free, had stunn'd the Russ, and 

foil'd 
Earth's new oppressors, as it foil'd her old. 
Now thy majestic eyes are shut and cold : 
And colder still Polonia's children find 
The sympathetic hands, that we outhold. 
But, Poles, when we are gone, the world will mind 
Ye bore the brunt of fate, and bled for humankind. 

So hallowedly have ye fulfill'd your part, 
My pride repudiates ev'n the sigh that blends 
With Poland's name — name written on my heart. 
My heroes, my grief-consecrated friends ! 
Your sorrow, in nobility, transcends 
Your conqueror's joy: his cheek may blush; but shame 
Can tinge not yours, though exile's tear descends; 
Nor would ye change your conscience, cause, and 
name, 

For his, with all his wealth, and all his felon fame. 

N2 



238 SENEX'S SOLILOQUY. 

Thee, Niemciewitz, whose song of stirring power 

The Czar forbids to sound in Polish lands ; 

Thee, Czartoryski, in thy banish'd bower, 

The patricide, who in thy palace stands, 

May envy ; proudly may Polonia's bands 

Throw down their swords at Europe's feet in scorn, 

Saying — " Russia from the metal of these brands 

Shall forge the fetters of your sons unborn ; 

Our setting star is your misfortunes' rising morn." 



SENEX'S SOLILOQUY ON HIS YOUTHFUL IDOL 



Platonic friendship at your years, 
Says Conscience, should content ye 

Nay, name not fondness to her ears, 
The darling's scarcely twenty. 

Yes, and she'll loathe me unforgiven, 
To dote thus out of season ; 

But beauty is a beam from heaven, 
That dazzles blind our reason. 

I'll challenge Plato from the skies, 
Yes, from his spheres harmonic, 

To look in M— y C ' eyes, 

And try to be Platonic. 



LINES 



ON LEAVING A SCENE IN BAVARIA. 



Adieu the woods and waters' side, 
Imperial Danube's rich domain ! 

Adieu the grotto, wild and wide, 
The rocks abrupt, and grassy plain ! 
For pallid Autumn once again 

Hath swell'd each torrent of the hill ; 
Her clouds collect, her shadows sail, 
And watery winds that sweep the vale 

Grow loud and louder still. 

But not the storm, dethroning fast 
Yon monarch oak of massy pile ; 

Nor river roaring to the blast 
Around its dark and desert isle ; 
Nor church-bell tolling to beguile 

The cloud-born thunder passing by, 
Can sound in discord to my soul : 
Roll on, ye mighty waters, roll ! 

And rage, thou darken'd sky ! 

Thy blossoms now no longer bright ; 

Thy wither'd woods no longer green; 
Yet, Eldurn shore, with dark delight 

I visit thy unlovely scene ! 

For many a sunset hour serene 



240 LINES. 

My steps have trod thy mellow dew ; 

When his green light the glow-worm gave, 
When Cynthia from the distant wave 

Her twilight anchor drew, 

And plough'd, as with a swelling sail, 

The billowy clouds and starry sea; 
Then while thy hermit nightingale 

Sang on his fragrant apple-tree, — 

Romantic, solitary, free, 
The visitant of Eldurn's shore, 

On such a moonlight mountain stray'd, 

As echo'd to the music made 
By Druid harps of yore. 

Around thy savage hills of oak, 

Around thy waters bright and blue, 

No hunter's horn the silence broke, 
No dying shriek thine echo knew ; 
But safe, sweet Eldurn woods, to you 

The wounded wild deer ever ran, 

Whose myrtle bound their grassy cave, 
Whose very rocks a shelter gave 

From blood-pursuing man. 

Oh heart effusions, that arose 

From nightly wanderings cherish'd here ; 
To him who flies from many woes, 

Even homeless deserts can be dear ! 

The last and solitary cheer 
Of those that own no earthly home, 



LINES. 241 

Say — is it not, ye banish'd race, 
In such a loved and lonely place 
Companionless to roam ? 

Yes ! I have loved thy wild abode, 

Unknown, unplough'd, untrodden shore; 
Where scarce the woodman finds a road, 

And scarce the fisher plies an oar; 

For man's neglect I love thee more ; 
That art nor avarice intrude 

To tame thy torrent's thunder-shock, 

Or prune thy vintage of the rock 
Magnificently rude. 

Unheeded spreads thy blossom'd bud 

Its milky bosom to the bee ; 
Unheeded falls along the flood 

Thy desolate and aged tree. 

Forsaken scene, how like to thee 
The fate of unbefriended Worth ! 

Like thine her fruit dishonour'd falls; 

Like thee in solitude she calls 
A thousand treasures forth. 

Oh ! silent spirit of the place, 

If, lingering with the ruin'd year, 
Thy hoary form and awful face 

I yet might watch and worship here ! 

Thy storm were music to mine ear, 
Thy wildest walk a shelter given 

Sublimer thoughts on earth to find, 

And share, with no unhallow'd mind, 
The maiesty of heaven. 



242 LINES. 

What though the bosom friends of Fate, 

Prosperity's unwearied brood, — 
Thy consolations cannot rate, 

self-dependent solitude ! 
Yet with a spirit unsubdued, 

Though darken'd by the clouds of Care, 
To worship thy congenial gloom, 
A pilgrim to the Prophet's tomb 

The Friendless shall repair. 

On him the world hath never smiled 
Or look'd but with accusing eye ; — 

All-silent goddess of the wild, 

To thee that misanthrope shall fly ! 

1 hear his deep soliloquy, 

I mark his proud but ravaged form, 
As stern he wraps his mantle round, 
And bids, on winter's bleakest ground, 

Deliance to the storm. 

Peace to his banish'd heart, at last, 
In thy dominions shall descend, 

And, strong as beechwood in the blast, 
His spirit shall refuse to bend ; 
Enduring life without a friend, 

The world and falsehood left behind, 
Thy votary shall bear elate, 
(Triumphant o'er opposing Fate,) 

His dark inspired mind. 

But dost thou, Folly, mock the Muse 

A wanderer's mountain walk to sing, 
Who shuns a w 7 arring w r orld, nor woos 



LINES. 243 

The vulture cover of its wing ? 

Then fly, thou cowering, shivering thing, 
Back to the fostering world beguiled, 

To waste in self-consuming strife 

The loveless brotherhood of life, 
Reviling and reviled ! 

Away, thou lover of the race 

That hither chased yon weeping deer ! 
If Nature's all majestic face 

More pitiless than man's appear; 

Or if the wild winds seem more drear 
Than man's cold charities below, 

Behold around his peopled plains, 

Where'er the social savage reigns, 
Exuberance of woe ! 

His art and honours wouldst thou seek 
Emboss'd on grandeur's giant walls ? 

Or hear his moral thunders speak 
Where senates light their airy halls, 
Where man his brother man enthralls ; 

Or sends his whirlwind warrants forth 
To rouse the slumbering fiends of war, 
To dye the blood- warm waves afar, 

And desolate the earth 1 

From clime to clime pursue the scene, 

And mark in all thy spacious way, 
Where'er the tyrant man has been, 

There Peace, the cherub, cannot stay; 

In wilds and woodlands far away 



244 THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 

She builds her solitary bower, 
Where only anchorites have trod, 
Or friendless men, to worship God. 

Have wander'd for an hour. 

In such a far forsaken vale, — 

And such, sweet Eldurn vale, is thine, — 
Afflicted nature shall inhale 

Heaven-borrow'd thoughts and joys divine ; 

No longer wish, no more repine 
For man's neglect or woman's scorn ; 

Then wed thee to an exile's lot, 

For if the world hath loved thee not, 
Its absence may be borne. 



THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 



Can restlessness reach the cold sepulchred head ? — 
Ay, the quick have their sleep-walkers, so have the 

dead. 
There are brains, though they moulder, that dream in 

the tomb, 
And that maddening forehear the last trumpet of doom, 
Till their corses start sheeted to revel on earth, 
Making horror more deep by the semblance of mirth : 
By the glare of new-lighted volcanoes they dance, 
Or at mid-sea appal the chill'd mariner's glance. 
Such, I wot, was the band of cadaverous smile 
Seen ploughing the night-surge of Heligo's isle. 



THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND. 245 

The foam of the Baltic had sparkled like fire, 
And the red moon look'd down with an aspect of ire : 
But her beams on a sudden grew sick-like and grey, 
And the mews that had slept clang'd and shriek'd far 

away — 
And the buoys and the beacons extinguish'd their light, 
As the boat of the stony-eyed dead came in sight, 
High bounding from billow to billow ; each form 
Had its shroud like a plaid flying loose to the storm ; 
With an oar in each pulseless and icy-cold hand, 
Fast they plough'd by the lee-shore of Heligoland, 
Such breakers as boat of the living ne'er cross'd ; 
Now surf-sunk for minutes again they uptoss'd, 
And with livid lips shouted reply o'er the flood 
To the challenging w r atchman that curdled his blood — 
' We are dead — we are bound from our graves in the 

west, 

First to Hecla, and then to ' Unmeet was the rest 

For man's ear. The old abbey bell thunder'd its 

clang, 
And their eyes gleam'd w T ith phosphorous light as it 

rang: 
Ere they vanish'd, they stopp'd, and gazed silently 

grim, 
Till the eye could define them, garb, feature, and 

limb. 

Now who were those roamers ? — of gallows or wheel 
Bore they marks, or the mangling anatomist's steel ? 
No, by magistrates' chains 'mid their grave-clothes 

you saw 
They were felons too proud to have perish'd by law : 
20 



246 SONG. 

But a ribbon that hung where a rope should have 

been, 
'T was- the badge of their faction, its hue was not green, 
Show'd them men who had trampled and tortured and 

driven 
To rebellion the fairest Isle breath'd on by Heaven, — 
Men whose heirs would yet finish the tyrannous task, 
If the Truth and the Time had not dragg'd off their 

mask. 
They parted — but not till the sight might discern 
A scutcheon distinct at their pinnace's stern 
Where letters emblazon'd in blood-colour'd flame 
Named their faction — I blot not my page with its name. 



SONG. 

Earl March look'd on his dying child, 
And smit with grief to view her — 

The youth, he cried, whom I exiled, 
Shall be restored to woo her. 

She's at the window many an hour 

His coming to discover : 
And he look'd up to Ellen's bower, 

And she look'd on her lover — 

But ah ! so pale, he knew her knot, 

Though her smile on him was dwelling. 

And am I then forgot — forgot ? — 
It broke the heart of Ellen. 



song. 247 

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, 

Her cheek is cold <is ashes ; 
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those ey#s 

To lift their silken lashes. 



SONG. 



When Love came first to Earth, the Spring 
Spread rose-beds to receive him, 

And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing 
To Heaven, if she should leave him. 



But Spring departing, saw his faith 
Pledged to the next new comer — 

He revell'd in the warmer breath 
And richer bowers of Summer. 



The sportive Autumn claim'd by rights 

An Archer for her lover, 
And even in Winter's dark cold nights 

A charm he could discover. 

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy, 
For this time were his reasons — 

In short, Young Love's a gallant boy, 
That likes all times and seasons. 



SONG. 

Drink ye to her that each loves best, 

And if you nurse a flame 
That 's told but to her mutual breast, 

We will not ask her name. 

Enough, while memory tranced and glad 

Paints silently the fair, 
That each should dream of joys he 's had, 

Or yet may hope to share. 

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast 
From hallow'd thoughts so dear; 

But drink to her that each loves most, 
As she would love to hear. 



LINES 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF EMIGRANTS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES. 



On England's shore I saw a pensive band, 

With sails unfurl'd for earth's remotest strand, 

Like children parting from a mother, shed 

Tears for the home that could not yield them bread ; 

Grief mark'd each face receding from the view, 

'Twas grief to nature honourably true. 

And long, poor wanderers o'er the ecliptic deep, 

The song that names but home shall make you weep 



LINES. 249 

Oft shall ye fold your flocks by stars above 
In that far world, and miss the stars ye love ; 
Oft when its tuneless birds scream round forlorn, 
Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn, 
And, giving England's names to distant scenes, 
Lament that earth's extension intervenes. 

But cloud not yet too long, industrious train, 

Your solid good with sorrow nursed in vain : 

For has the heart no interest yet as bland 

As that which binds us to our native land ? 

The deep-drawn wish, when children crown our 

hearth, 
To hear the cherub-chorus of their mirth, 
Undamped by dread that want may e'er unhouse, 
Or servile misery knit those smiling brows : 
The pride to rear an independent shed, 
And give the lips we love unborrow'd bread : 
To see a world, from shadowy forests won, 
In youthful beauty wedded to the sun ; 
To skirt our home with harvests widely sown, 
And call the blooming landscape all our own, 
Our children's heritage, in prospect long. 
These are the hopes, high-minded hopes and strong, 
That beckon England's wanderers o'er the brine 
To realms where foreign constellations shine ; 
Where streams from undiscover'd fountains roll, 
And winds shall fan them from th' Antarctic pole. 
And what though doom'd to shores so far apart 
From England's home, that ev'n the homesick heart 
Quails, thinking, ere that gulf can be recross'd, 
How large a space of fleeting life is lost : 



250 LINES. 

Yet there, by time, their bosoms shall be changed, 
And strangers once shall cease to sigh estranged, 
But jocund in the year's long sunshine roam, 
That yields their sickle twice its harvest-home. 

There, marking o'er his farm's expanding ring 

New fleeces whiten and new fruits upspring, 

The grey-hair'd swain, his grandchild sporting round, 

Shall walk at eve his little empire's bound, 

Emblazed with ruby vintage, ripening corn, 

And verdant rampart of acacian thorn, 

While, mingling with the scent his pipe exha.es, 

The orange-grove's and fig-tree's breath prevails ; 

Survey with pride beyond a monarch's spoil 

His honest arm's own subjugated soil ; 

And, summing all the blessings God has given, 

Put up his patriarchal prayer to Heaven 

That, when his bones shall here repose in peace, 

The scions of his love may still increase, 

And o'er a land where life has ample room 

In health and plenty innocently bloom. 

Delightful land ! in wildness ev'n benign, 

The glorious past is ours, the future thine ! 

As in a cradled Hercules, we trace 

The lines of empire in thine infant face. 

What nations in thy wide horizon's span 

Shall teem on tracts untrodden yet by man ! 

What spacious cities with their spires shall gleam, 

Where now the panther laps a lonely stream, 

And all but brute or reptile life is dumb ! 

Land of the free ! thy kingdom is to come, 



LINES. 251 

Of states, with laws from Gothic bondage burst, 
And creeds by charter'd priesthoods unaccurst : 
Of navies, hoisting their emblazon'd flags, 
Where shipless seas now wash unbeacon'd crags ; 
Of hosts review'd in dazzling files and squares, 
Their pennon'd trumpets breathing native airs, — 
For minstrels thou shalt have of native fire, 
And maids to sing the songs themselves inspire :— 
Our very speech, methinks, in after time, 
Shall catch th' Ionian blandness of thy clime ; 
And whilst the light and luxury of thy skies 
Give brighter smiles to beauteous woman's eyes, 
The Arts, whose soul is love, shall all spontaneous rise. 

Untrack'd in deserts lies the marble mine, 

Undug the ore that midst thy roofs shall shine ; 

Unborn the hands — but born they are to be — 

Fair Australasia, that shall give to thee 

Proud temple-domes, with galleries winding high, 

So vast in space, so just in symmetry, 

They widen to the contemplating eye, 

With colonnaded aisles in long array, 

And windows that enrich the flood of day 

O'er tesselated pavements, pictures fair, 

And niched statues breathing golden air. 

Nor there, whilst all that's seen bids Fancy swell, 

Shall Music's voice refuse to seal the spell ; 

.But choral hymns shall wake enchantment round, 

And organs yield their tempests of sweet sound. 

Meanwhile, ere Arts triumphant reach their goal, 
How blest the years of pastoral life shall roJi! 



252 LINES. 

Ev'n should some wayward hour the settler's mind 

Brood sad on scenes for ever left behind, 

Yet not a pang that England's name imparts 

Shall touch a fibre of his children's hearts ; 

Bound to that native land by Nature's bond, 

Full little shall their wishes rove beyond 

Its mountains blue, and melon-skirted streams, 

Since childhood loved and dreamt of in their dreams. 

How many a name, to us uncouthly wild, 

Shall thrill that region's patriotic child, 

And bring as sweet thoughts o'er his bosom's chords 

As aught that's named in song to us affords ! 

Dear shall that river's margin be to him, 

Where sportive first he bathed his boyish limb, 

Or petted birds, still brighter than their bowers, 

Or twined his tame young kangaroo with flowers. 

But more magnetic yet to memory 

Shall be the sacred spot, still blooming nigh, 

The bower of love, where first his bosom burn'd, 

And smiling passion saw its smile return'd. 

Go forth and prosper then, emprising band : 
May He, who in the hollow of his hand 
The ocean holds, and rules the whirlwind's sweep, 
Assuage its wrath, and guide you on the deep ! 



THE CHERUBS. 

SUGGESTED BY AN APOLOGUE IN THE WORKS OF FRANKLIN. 



Two spirits reach'd this world of ours : 
The lightning's locomotive powers 

Were slow to their agility : 
In broad day-light they moved incog., 
Enjoying, without mist or fog, 

Entire invisibility. 

The one, a simple cherub lad, 
Much interest in our planet had, 

Its face was so romantic ; 
He couldn't persuade himself that man 
Was such as heavenly rumours ran, 

A being base and frantic. 

The elder spirit, wise and cool, 
Brought down the youth as to a school ; 

But strictly on condition, 
Whatever they should see or hear, 
With mortals not to interfere ; 

'Twas not in their commission. 

They reach'd a sovereign city proud, 
Whose emperor pray'd to God aloud, 

With all his people kneeling, 
And priests perform'd religious rites : 
" Come," said the younger of the sprites, 
" This shows a pious feeling." 



254 THE CHERUBS. 

YOUNG SPIRIT. 

" Ar'n't these a decent godly race ?" 

OLD SPIRIT. 

"The dirtiest thieves on Nature's face." 

YOUNG SPIRIT. 

" But hark, what cheers they're giving 
Their emperor I — And is he a thief?" 

OLD SPIRIT. 

" Ay, and a cut-throat too ; — in brief, 
The greatest scoundrel living." 

YOUNG SPIRIT. 

" But say, what were they praying for, 
This people and their emperor ?" 

OLD SPIRIT. 

" Why, but for God's assistance 
To help their army, late sent out : 
And what their army is about, 

You '11 see at no great distance." 

On wings outspeeding mail or post, 
Our sprites o'ertook the Imperial host, 

In massacre it wallow'd : 
A noble nation*met its hordes, 
But broken fell their cause and swords, 

Unfortunate, though hallow'd. 



THE CHERUBS. 255 

They saw a late bombarded town, 

Its streets still warm with blood ran down ; 

Still smoked each burning rafter; 
And hideously, 'midst rape and sack, 
The murderer's laughter answer'd back 

His prey's convulsive laughter. 

They saw the captive eye the dead, 
With envy of his gory bed, — 

Death's quick reward of bravery : 
They heard the clank of chains, and then 
Saw thirty thousand bleeding men 

Dragg'd manacled to slavery. 

" Fie ! fie !" the younger heavenly spark 
Exclaim'd : — " we must have miss'd our mark, 

And enter'd hell's own portals : 
Earth can't be stain'd with crimes so black ; 
Nay, sure, we've got among a pack 

Of fiends, and not of mortals." 

" No," said the elder ; " no such thing : 
Fiends are not fools enough to wring 

The necks o£ one another : — 
They know their interests too well : 
Men fight ; but every devil in hell 

Lives friendly with his brother. 

And I could point you out some fellows, 
On this ill-fated planet Tellus, 

In royal power that revel ; 
Who, at the opening of the book 
Of judgment, may have cause to look 

With envy at the devil." 



256 DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. 

Name but the devil, and he'll appear. 
Old Satan in a trice was near, 

With smutty face and figure : 
But spotless spirits of the skies, 
Unseen to e'en his saucer eyes, 

Could watch the fiendish nigger. 

" Haloo !" he cried, " I smell a trick 
A mortal supersedes Old Nick, 

The scourge of earth appointed : 
He robs me of my trade, outrants 
The blasphemy of hell, and vaunts 

Himself the Lord's anointed. 

Folks make a fuss about my mischief: 
D — d fools, they tamely suffer this chief 

To play his pranks unbounded." 
The cherubs flew ; but saw from high, 
At human inhumanity, 

The devil himself astounded. 



DRINKING SONG OF "MUNICH. 



Sweet Iser ! were thy sunny realm 
And flowery garden mine, 

Thy waters I would shade with elm 
To prop the tender vine ; 

My golden flagons I would fill 

With rosy draughts from every hill ; 



SONG ON OUR QUEEN. 257 

And under every myrtle bower 
My gay companions should prolong 
The laugh, the revel, and the song, 

To many an idle hour. 

Like rivers crimson'd with the beam 

Of yonder planet bright, 
Our balmy cups should ever stream 

Profusion of delight ; 
No care should touch the mellow heart, 
And sad or sober none depart ; 

For wine can triumph over woe, 
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, 
Could build in Iser's sunny bowers 

A paradise below. 



SONG ON OUR QUEEN. 

SET TO MUSIC BY CHARLES NEATE, ESQ. 



Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep 

Has touch'd, and broken slavery's chain ; 

Yet, strange magician ! she enslaves 
Our hearts within her own domain. 

Her spirit is devout, and burns 
With thoughts averse to bigotry ; 

Yet she herself, the idol, turns 
Our thoughts into idolatry. 



LINES TO JULIA M . 

SENT WITH A COPT OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS. 



Since there is magic in your look 
And in your voice a witching charm, 
As all our hearts consenting tell, 
Enchantress, smile upon my book, 
And guard its lays from hate and harm 
By Beauty's most resistless spell. 

The sunny dew-drop of thy praise, 
Young day-star of the rising time, 
Shall with its odoriferous morn 
Refresh my sere and wither'd bays. 
Smile, and I will believe my rhyme 
Shall please the beautiful unborn. 

Go forth, my pictured thoughts, and rise 
In traits and tints of sweeter tone, 
When Julia's glance is o'er ye flung ; 
Glow, gladden, linger in her eyes, 
And catch a magic not your own, 
Read by the music of her tongue. 



TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, 

ON HIS SPEECH DELIVERED IN PARLIAMENT, AUGUST 7, 1832, RESPECTING 
THE FOREIGN POLICY OF GREAT BRITAIN. 



Burdett, enjoy thy justly foremost fame, 

Through good and ill report — through calm and 
storm — 

For forty years the pilot of reform ! 
But that which shall afresh entwine thy name 

With patriot laurels never to be sere, 
Is that thou hast come nobly forth to chide 
Our slumbering statesmen for their lack of pride — 

Their flattery of Oppressors, and their fear — 
When Britain's lifted finger, and her frown, 
Might call the nations up, and cast their tyrants down! 

Invoke the scorn — Alas ! too few inherit 
The scorn for despots cherish'd by our sires, 
That baffled Europe's persecuting fires, 

And shelter'd helpless states ! — Recal that spirit, 
And conjure back Old England's haughty mind — 

Convert the men who waver now, and pause 
Between their love of self and humankind ; 

And move, Amphion-like, those hearts of stone — 

The hearts that have been deaf to Poland's dying 
groan ! 

Tell them, we hold the Rights of Man too dear, 
To bless ourselves with lonely freedom blest ; 
But could we hope, with sole and selfish breast, 

To breathe untroubled Freedom's atmosphere ? — 



230 TO SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. 

Suppose we wish'd it ! England could not stand 
A lone oasis in the desert ground 
Of Europe's slavery; from the waste around 

Oppression's fiery blast and whirling sand 
Would reach and scathe us ! No ; it may not be : 
Britannia and the world conjointly must be free ! 

Burdett, demand why Britons send abroad 
Soft greetings to th' infanticidal Czar, 
The Bear on Poland's babes that wages war. 
Once, we are told, a mother's shriek o'erawed 

A lion, and he dropt her lifted child ; 
But Nicholas, whom neither God nor law, 
Nor Poland's shrieking mothers overawe, 
Outholds to us his friendship's gory clutch : 
Shrink, Britain — shrink, my king and country, from the 
touch ! 

He prays to Heaven for England's king, he says — 
And dares he to the God of mercy kneel, 
Besmear'd with massacres from head to heel?- 

No ; Moloch is his god — to him he prays ; 

And if his weird-like prayers had power to bring 

An influence, their power would be to curse. 

His hate is baleful, but his love is worse — 
A serpent's slaver deadlier than its sting ! 

Oh, feeble statesmen — ignominious times, 

That lick the tyrant's feet, and smile upon his crimes ! 



ODE TO THE GERMANS. 



The Spirit of Britannia 

Invokes, across the main, 
Her sister Allemannia 

To burst the Tyrant's chain : 
By our kindred blood, she cries, 
Rise, Allemannians, rise, 

And hallow'd thrice the band 
Of our kindred hearts shall be, 

When your land shall be the land 
Of the free — of the free ! 

With Freedom's lion-banner 

Britannia rules the waves ; 
Whilst your broad stone of honour * 

Is still the camp of slaves. 
For shame, for glory's sake, 
Wake, Allemannians, wake, 

And thy tyrants now that whelm 
Half the world shall quail and flee, 

When your realm shall be the realm 
Of the free ! — of the free ! 



Mars owes to you his thunder f 

That shakes the battle-field, 
Yet to break your bonds asunder 

No martial bolt has peal'd. 

• Ehrenbreitstein signifies, in German, "the broad stone of honour." 
t Germany invented gunpowder, clock-making, and printing. 

2J 



262 LINES. 

Shall the laurel'd land of art 
Wear shackles on her heart ? 

No ! the clock ye framed to tell, 
By its sound, the march of time ; 

Let it clang oppression's knell 

O'er your clime — o'er your clime ! 

The press's magic letters, 

That blessing ye brought forth, — 
Behold ! it lies in fetters 

On the soil that gave it birth : 
But the trumpet must be heard, 
And the charger must be spurr'd ; 

For your father Armin's Sprite 
Calls down from heaven, that ye 

Shall gird you for the fight, 

And be free ! — and be free ! 



LINES 

ON A PICTURE OF A GIRL IN THE ATTITUDE OF PRAYER. 

By the Artist Gruse, in the possession of Lady Stepney. 



Was man e'er doom'd that beauty made 
By mimic art should haunt him ; 

Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, 
And dote upon a phantom. 




" Shall the laurel'd land of art 
Wear shackles on her heart ? 

No ! the clock ye framed to tell, 
By its sound, the march of time ; 

Let it clang oppression's knell 

O'er your clime — o'er your clime ! 



p. 363 



LINES. 263 

Thou maid that in my inmost thought 

Art fancifully sainted, 
Why liv'st thou not — why art thou nought 

But canvas sweetly painted ? 

Whose looks seem lifted to the skies, 

Too pure for love of mortals — 
As if they drew angelic eyes 

To greet thee at heaven's portals. 

Yet loveliness has here no grace, 

Abstracted or ideal — 
Art ne'er but from a living face 

Drew looks so seeming real. 

What wert thou, maid ? — thy life — thy name 

Oblivion hides in mystery ; 
Though from thy face my heart could frame 

A long romantic history. 

Transported to thy time I seem, 

Though dust thy coffin covers — 
And hear the songs, in fancy's dream, 

Of thy devoted lovers. 

How witching must have been thy breath — 

How sweet the living charmer — 
Whose every semblance after death 

Can make the heart grow warmer ! 

Adieu, the charms that vainly move 

My soul in their possession — 
That prompt my lips to speak of love, 
Yet rob them of expression. 



264 LINES. 

Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised 

Was but a poet's duty ; 
And shame to him that ever gazed 

Impassive on thy beauty. 



LINES 



ON REVISITING CATHCART. 



Oh ! scenes of my childhood, and dear to my heart, 
Ye green waving woods on the margin of Cart, 
How blest in the morning of life I have stray'd 
By the stream of the vale and the grass-cover'd glade ! 

Then, then every rapture was young and sincere, 
Ere the sunshine of bliss was bedimm'd by a tear, 
And a sweeter delight every scene seem'd to lend, 
That the mansion of peace was the home of a friend. 

Now the scenes of my childhood and dear to my heart, 
All pensive I visit, and sigh to depart ; 
Their flowers seem to languish, their beauty to cease, 
For a stranger inhabits the mansion of peace. 

But hush'd be the sigh that untimely complains, 
While Friendship and all its enchantment remains, 
While it blooms like the flower of a winterless clime, 
Untainted by chance, unabated by time. 



LINES 

ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S. 



Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea ! 

'T were thanklessness in me to bless thee not, 

Great beauteous Being ! in whose breath and smile 

My heart beats calmer, and my very mind 

Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer 

Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world ! 

Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din 

To me is peace, thy restlessness repose. 

Ev'n gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes 

With all the darling field-flowers in their prime, 

And gardens haunted by the nightingale's 

Long trills and gushing ecstasies of song, 

For these wild headlands, and the sea-mew's clang- 

With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea, 

I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades 

And green savannahs — Earth has not a plain 

So boundless or so beautiful as thine : 

The eagle's vision cannot take it in : 

The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, 

Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird : 

It is the mirror of the stars, where all 

Their hosts within the concave firmament, 

Gay marching to the music of the spheres, 

Can see themselves at once. 



266 ' LINES. 

Nor on the stage 
Of rural landscape are there lights and shades 
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine. 
How vividly this moment brightens forth, 
Between grey parallel and leaden breadths, 
A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, 
Flush'd like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck, 
And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing! 
The semblance of a meteor. 

Mighty Sea 
Cameleon-like thou changest, but there's love 
In all thy change, and constant sympathy 
With yonder Sky — thy Mistress ; from her brow 
Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colours on 
Thy faithful bosom ; morning's milky white, 
Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve ; 
And all thy balmier hoitrs, fair Element, 
Have such divine complexion — crisped smiles, 
Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whisperings, 
That little is the wonder Love's own Queen 
From thee of old was fabled to have sprung — 
Creation's common ! which no human power 
Can parcel or inclose ; the lordliest floods 
And cataracts that the tiny hands of man 
Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew 
To thee that couldst subdue the Earth itself, 
And brook'st commandment from the heavens alone 
For marshalling thy waves — 

Yet, potent Sea ! 
How placidly thy moist lips speak ev'n now 
Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be 
So fanciless as to feel no gratitude 



LINES. 2G7 

That power and grandeur can be so serene, 
Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way, 
And rocking ev'n the fisher's little bark 
As gently as a mother rocks her child ? — 

The inhabitants of other worlds behold 

Our orb more lucid for thy spacious share 

On earth's rotundity ; and is he not 

A blind worm in the dust, great Deep, the man 

Who sees not or who seeing has no joy 

In thy magnificence ? What though thou art 

Unconscious and material, thou canst reach 

The inmost immaterial mind's recess, 

And with thy tints and motion stir its chords 

To music, like the light on Memnon's lyre ! 

The Spirit of the Universe in thee 
Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life — 
The eternal, graceful, and majestic life 
Of nature, and the natural human heart 
Is therefore bound to thee with holy love. 

Earth has her gorgeous towns ; the earth-circling sea 
Has spires and mansions more amusive still — 
Men's volant homes that measure liquid space 
On wheel or wing. The chariot of the land 
With pain'd and panting steeds and clouds of dust 
Has no sight-gladdening motion like these fair 
Careerers with the foam beneath their bows, 
Whose streaming ensigns charm the waves by day, 
Whose carols and whose watch-bells cheer the night, 
Moor'd as they cast the shadows of their masts 



268 LINES. 

In long array, or hither flit and yond 
Mysteriously with slow and crossing lights, 
Like spirits on the darkness of the deep. 

There is a magnet-like attraction in 

These waters to the imaginative power 

That links the viewless with the visible, 

And pictures things unseen. To realms beyond 

Yon highway of the world my fancy flies, 

When by her tall and triple mast we know 

Some noble voyager that has to woo 

The trade-winds and to stem the ecliptic surge. 

The coral groves — the shores of conch and pearl, 

Where she will cast her anchor and reflect 

Her cabin-window lights on warmer waves, 

And under planets brighter than our own : 

The nights of palmy isles, that she will see 

Lit boundless by the fire-fly — all the smells 

Of tropic fruits that will regale her — all 

The pomp of nature, and the inspiriting 

Varieties of life she has to greet, 

Come swarming o'er the meditative mind. 

True, to the dream of Fancy, Ocean has 

His darker tints ; but where's the element 

That chequers not its usefulness to man 

With casual terror ? Scathes not Earth sometimes 

Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes 

Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang 

Of bells for their own ruin, strews them flat 

As riddled ashes — silent as the grave ? 

Walks not Contagion on the Air itself? 



LINES. 269 

I should — old Ocean's Saturnalian days 

And roaring nights of revelry and sport 

With wreck and human woe — be loth to sing ; 

For they are few, and all their ills weigh light 

Against his sacred usefulness, that bids 

Our pensile globe revolve in purer air. 

Here Morn and Eve with blushing thanks receive 

Their freshening dews, gay fluttering breezes cool 

Their wings to fan the brow of fever'd climes, 

And here the Spring dips down her emerald urn 

For showers to glad the earth. 

Old Ocean was 
Infinity of ages ere we breathed 
Existence — and he will be beautiful 
When all the living world that sees him now 
Shall roll unconscious dust around the sun. 
Quelling from age to age the vital throb 
In human hearts, Death shall not subjugate 
The pulse that swells in his stupendous breast, 
Or interdict his minstrelsy to sound 
In thundering concert with the quiring winds ; 
But long as Man to parent Nature owns 
Instinctive homage, and in times beyond 
The power of thought to reach, bard after bard 
Shall sing thy glory, Beatific Sea. 



THE DEAD EAGLE. 

WRITTEN AT ORAN. 



Fallen as he is, this king of birds still seems 

Like royalty in ruins. Though his eyes 

Are shut, that look undazzled on the sun, 

He was the sultan of the sky, and earth 

Paid tribute to his eyry. It was pereh'd 

Higher than human conqueror ever built 

His banner'd fort. Where Atlas' top looks o'er 

Zahara's desert to the equator's line : 

From thence the winged despot mark'd his prey, 

Above th' encampments of the Bedouins, ere 

Their watch-fires were extinct, or camels knelt 

To take their loads, or horsemen scour'd the plain, 

And there he dried his feathers in the dawn, 

Whilst yet the unwaken'd world was dark below. 

There's such a charm in natural strength and power, 

That human fancy has for ever paid 

Poetic homage to the bird of Jove. 

Hence, 'neath his image, Rome array'd her turms 

And cohorts for the conquest of the world. 

And figuring his flight, the mind is fill'd 

With thoughts that mock the pride of wingless man. 

True the carr'd aeronaut can mount as high ; 

But what's the triumph of his volant art ? 

A rash intrusion on the realms of air. 

His helmless vehicle, a silken toy, 

A bubble bursting in the thunder cloud ; 







" Fallen as he is, this king of birds still seems 
Like royalty in ruins. Though his eyes 
Are shut, that look undazzled on the sun, 
He was the sultan of the sky, and earth 
Paid tribute to his eyry." 



p. 270 



THE DEAD EAGLE. 271 

His course has no volition, and he drifts 

The passive plaything of the winds. Not such 

Was this proud bird : he clove the adverse storm, 

And cuff'd it with his wings. He stopp'd his flight 

As easily as the Arab reins his steed, 

And stood at pleasure 'neath Heaven's zenith, like 

A lamp suspended from its azure dome. 

Whilst underneath him the world's mountains lay 

Like molehills, and her streams like lucid threads. 

Then downward, faster than a falling star, 

He near'd the earth, until his shape distinct 

Was blackly shadow'd on the sunny ground ; 

And deeper terror hush'd the wilderness, 

To hear his nearer whoop. Then, up again 

He soar'd and wheel'd. There was an air of scorn 

In all his movements, whether he threw round 

His crested head to look behind him ; or 

Lay vertical and sportively display'd 

The inside whiteness of his wing declined, 

In gyres and undulations full of grace, 

An object beautifying Heaven itself. 

He — reckless who was victor, and above 

The hearing of their guns — saw fleets engaged 

In flaming combat. It was nought to him 

What carnage, Moor or Christian, strew'd their decks. 

But if his intellect had match'd his wings, 

Methinks he would have scorn'd man's vaunted power 

To plough the deep ; his pinions bore him down 

To Algiers the warlike, or the coral groves, 

That blush beneath the green of Bona's waves ; 

And traversed in an hour a wider space 



272 THE DEAD EAGLE. 

Than yonder gallant ship, with all her sails 
Wooing the winds, can cross from morn till eve. 
His bright eyes were his compass, earth his chart, 
His talons anchor'd on the stormiest cliff, 
And on the very light-house rock he perch'd, 
When winds churn'd white the waves. 

The earthquake's self 
Disturb'd not him that memorable day, 
When, o'er yon table-land, where Spain had built 
Cathedrals, cannon'd forts, and palaces, 
A palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran, 
Turning her city to a sepulchre, 
And strewing into rubbish all her homes; 
Amidst whose traceable foundations now, 
Of streets and squares, the hyama hides himself. 
That hour beheld him fly as careless o'er 
The stifled shrieks of thousands buried quick, 
As lately when he pounced the speckled snake, 
Coil'd in yon mallows and wide nettled fields 
That mantle o'er the dead old Spanish town. 

Strange is the imagination's dread delight 

In objects link'd with danger, death, and pain ! 

Fresh from the luxuries of polish'd life 

The echo of these wilds enchanted me ; 

And my heart beat with joy when first I heard 

A lion's roar come down the Lybian wind, 

Across yon long, wide, lonely inland lake, 

Where boat ne'er sails from homeless shore to shore. 

And yet Numidia's landscape has its spots 
Of pastoral pleasantness — though far between, 



song. 273 

The village planted near the Maraboot's 

Round roof has aye its feathery palm trees 

Pair'd, for in solitude they bear no fruits. 

Here nature's hues all harmonise — fields white 

With alasum, or blue with buglos — banks 

Of glossy fennel, blent with tulips wild, 

And sunflowers, like a garment prankt with gold ; 

Acres, and miles of opal asphodel, 

Where sports and couches the black-eyed gazelle. 

Here, too, the air's harmonious — deep-toned doves 
Coo to the fife-like carol of the lark ; 
And, when they cease, the holy nightingale 
Winds up his long, long shakes of ecstasy, 
With notes that seem but the protracted sounds 
Of glassy runnels bubbling over rocks. 



SONG. 



To Love in my heart, I exclaim'd t'other morning, 
Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, t&ke 

warning ; 
Thou shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty, 
To go gadding, bewitch'd by the young eyes of beauty. 

For weary's the wooing, ah ! weary, 
When an old man will have a young dearie. 

The god left my heart, at its surly reflections, 

But came back on pretext of some sweet recollections, 

22 



274 LINES. 

And he made me forget what I ought to remember, 
That the rose-bud of June cannot bloom in November. 

Ah ! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days — 
Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. 

But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching, 
That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching; 
And the only new lore my experience traces, 
Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces. 

How weary is wisdom, how weary ! 
When one sits by a smiling young dearie ! 

And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her, 

I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser ; 

Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is 

haunted — 
It is you, the enchantress — not I, the enchanted. 

Would you have me behave more discreetly, 
Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF LA PEROUSE's VOYAGE8 



Loved Voyager ! his pages had a zest 

More sweet than fiction to my wondering breast, 

When, rapt in fancy, many a boyish day 

I track'd his wanderings o'er the watery way, 

Roam'd round the Aleutian isles in waking dreams, 

Or pluck'd the fleur-de-lys by Jesso's streams — 



LINES 275 

Or gladly leap'd on that far Tartar strand, 

Where Europe's anchor ne'er had bit the sand, 

Where scarce a roving wild tribe cross'd the plain, 

Or human voice broke nature's silent reign ; 

But vast and grassy deserts feed the bear, 

And sweeping deer-herds dread no hunter's snare. 

Such young delight his real records brought, 

His truth so touch'd romantic springs of thought, 

That all my after-life — his fate and fame 

Entwined romance with La Perouse's name. — 

Fair were his ships, expert his gallant crews, 

And glorious was th' emprise of La Perouse, — 

Humanely glorious ! Men will weep for him, 

When many a guilty martial fame is dim : 

He plough'd the deep to bind no captive's chain — 

Pursued no rapine — strew'd no wreck with slain; 

And, save that in the deep themselves lie low, 

His heroes pluck'd no wreath from human woe. 

'Twas his the earth's remotest bound to scan, 

Conciliating with gifts barbaric man — 

Enrich the world's contemporaneous mind, 

And amplify the picture of mankind. 

Far on the vast Pacific — 'midst those isles, 

O'er which the earliest morn of Asia smiles, 

He sounded and gave charts to many a shore 

And gulf of Ocean new to nautic lore ; 

Yet he that led Discovery o'er the wave, 

Still fills himself an undiscover'd grave. 

He came not back, — Conjecture's cheek grew pale, 

Year after year — in no propitious gale, 

His lilied banner held its homeward way, 

And Science sadden'd at her martyr's stay. 



276 LINES. 

An age elapsed — no wreck told where or when 

The chief went down with all his gallant men, 

Or whether by the storm and wild sea flood 

He perish'd, or by wilder men of blood — 

The shuddering Fancy only guess'd his doom, 

And Doubt to Sorrow gave but deeper gloom. 

An age elapsed — when men were dead or grey, 

Whose hearts had mourn'd him in their youthful day ; 

Fame traced on Mannicolo's shore at last, 

The boiling surge had mounted o'er his mast. 

The islemen told of some surviving men, 

But Christian eyes beheld them ne'er again. 

Sad bourne of all his toils — with all his band — 

To sleep, wreck'd, shroudless, on a savage strand ! — 

Yet what is all that fires a hero's scorn 

Of death ? — the hope to live in hearts unborn : 

Life to the brave is not its fleeting breath, 

But worth — foretasting fame, that follows death. 

That worth had La Perouse — that meed he won ; 

He sleeps — his life's long stormy watch is done. 

In the great deep, whose boundaries and space 

He measured, Fate ordain'd his resting-place ; 

But bade his fame, like th' Ocean rolling o'er 

His relics — visit every earthly shore,. 

Fair Science on that Ocean's azure robe 

Still writes his name in picturing the globe, 

And paints — (what fairer wreath could glory twine ?) 

His watery course — a world-encircling line. 



TO * 

WILLIAM BEATTIE, M. D., 

IN REMEMBRANCE 

OF LONG-SUBSISTING AND MUTUAL FRIENDSHIP 

THE POEM "GLENCOE" 

AND THE OTHER PIECES THAT FOLLOW 

IN THIS VOLUME, 

ARE INSCRIBED 

BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



London, 

December, 1842. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 



[I received the substance of the tradition on which this Poem is founded, 
in the first instance, from a friend in London, who wrote to Matthew N. 
Macdonald, Esq., of Edinburgh. He had the kindness to send me a circum- 
stantial account of the tradition; and that gentleman's knowledge of the 
Highlands, as well as his particular acquaintance with the district of Glencoe, 
leave me no doubt of the incident having really happened. I have not de- 
parted from the main facts of the tradition as reported to me by Mr. Macdonald ; 
only I have endeavoured to colour the personages of the story, and to make 
them as distinctive as possible.] 



The sunset sheds a horizontal smile 

O'er Highland frith and Hebridean isle, 

While, gay with gambols of its finny shoals, 

The glancing wave rejoices as it rolls 

With streamer'd busses, that distinctly shine 

All downward, pictured in the glassy brine ; 

Whose crews, with faces brightening in the sun, 

Keep measure with their oars, and all in one 

Strike up th' old Gaelic song. — Sweep, rowers, sweep 

The fisher's glorious spoils are in the deep. 

Day sinks — but twilight owes the traveller soon, 
To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon, 
Bespeaking long undarken'd hours of time ; 
False hope — the Scots are steadfast — not their clime 
A war-worn soldier from the western land 
Seeks Cona's vale by Ballihoula's strand ; 



280 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

The vale, by eagle-haunted cliffs o'erhung, 

Where Fingal fought and Ossian's harp was strung— 

Our veteran's forehead, bronzed on sultry plains, 

Had stood the brunt of thirty fought campaigns ; 

He well could vouch the sad romance of wars, 

And count the dates of battles by his scars ; 

For he had served where o'er and o'er again 

Britannia's oriflamme had lit the plain 

Of glory — and victorious stamp'd her name 

On Oudenarde's and Blenheim's fields of fame. 

Nine times in battle-field his blood had stream'd, 

Yet vivid still his veteran blue eye gleam'd ; 

Full well he bore his knapsack — unoppress'd, 

And march'd with soldier-like erected crest : 

Nor sign of even loquacious age he wore, 

Save when he told his life's adventures o'er; 

Some tired of these ; for terms to him were dear 

Too tactical by far for vulgar ear ; 

As when he talk'd of rampart and ravine, 

And trenches fenced with gabion and fascine — 

But when his theme possess'd him all and whole, 

He scorn'd proud puzzling words and warm'cl the soul; 

Hush'd groups hung on his lips with fond surprise, 

That sketch'd old scenes — like pictures to their eyes : — 

The wide war-plain, with banners glowing bright, 

And bayonets to the furthest stretch of sight ; 

The pause, more dreadful than the peal to come 

From volleys blazing at the beat of drum — 

Till all the field of thundering lines became 

Two level and confronted sheets of flame. 

Then to the charge, when Marlbro's hot pursuit 

Trode France's gilded lilies underfoot ; 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 28 L 

He came and kindled — and with martial lung 
Would chant the very march their trumpets sung. — 

Th' old soldier hoped, ere evening's light should fail, 

To reach a home, south-east of Cona's vale ; 

But looking at Bennevis, capp'd with snow, 

He saw its mists come curling down below, 

And spread white darkness o'er the sunset glow ; — 

Fast rolling like tempestuous Ocean's spray, 

Or clouds from troops in battle's fiery day — 

So dense, his quarry 'scaped the falcon's sight, 

The owl alone exulted, hating light. 

Benighted thus our pilgrim groped his ground, 
Half 'twixt the river's and the cataract's sound. 
At last a sheep-dog's bark inform'd his ear 
Some human habitation might be near; 
Anon sheep-bleatings rose from rock to rock, — - 
'Twas Luath hounding to their fold the flock. 
Ere long the cock's obstreperous clarion rang, 
And next, a maid's sweet voice, that spinning sang : 
At last amidst the greensward (gladsome sight !) 
A cottage stood, with straw-roof golden bright. 

He knock'd, was welcomed in ; none ask'd his name, 

Nor whither he was bound nor whence he came ; 

But he was beckon'd to the stranger's seat, 

Right side the chimney fire of blazing peat. 

Blest Hospitality makes not her home 

In walled parks and castellated dome; 

She flies the city's needy greedy crowd, 

And shuns still more the mansions of the proud ; — 



282 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

The balm of savage or of simple life, 

A wild flower cut by culture's polish'd knife ! 

The house, no common sordid shieling cot, 
Spoke inmates of a comfortable lot. 
The Jacobite white rose festoon'd their door ; 
The windows sash'd and glazed, the oaken floor, 
The chimney graced with antlers of the deer, 
The rafters hung with meat for winter cheer, 
And all the mansion, indicated plain 
Its master a superior shepherd swain. 

Their supper came — the table soon was spread 
With eggs and milk and cheese and barley bread. 
The family were three — a father hoar, 
Whose age you'd guess at seventy years or more, 
His son look'd fifty — cheerful like her lord 
His comely wife presided at the board ; 
All three had that peculiar courteous grace 
Which marks the meanest of the Highland race ; 
Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe, 
As if the north-wind fann'd their bosom's glow ! 
But wide unlike their souls : old Norman's eye 
Was proudly savage ev'n in courtesy. 
His sinewy shoulders — each, though aged and lean, 
Broad as the cuii'd Herculean head between, — 
His scornful lip, his eyes of yellow fire, 
And nostrils that dilated quick with ire, 
With ever downward-slanting shaggy brows, 
Mark'd the old lion you would dread to rouse. 
Norman, in truth, had led his earlier life 
In raids of red revenge and feudal strife; 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 283 

Religious duty in revenge he saw, 
Proud Honour's right and Nature's honest law 
First in the charge and foremost in pursuit, 
Long breath'd, deep-chested, and in speed of foot 
A match for stags — still fleeter when the prey 
Was man, in persecution's evil day; 
Cheer'd to that chase by brutal bold Dundee, 
No Highland hound had lapp'd more blood than he. 
Oft had he changed the covenanter's breath 
From howls of psalmody to howls of death ; 
And though long bound to peace, it irk'd him still 
His dirk had ne'er one hated foe to kill. 

Yet Norman had fierce virtues, that would mock 

Cold-blooded tories of the modern stock 

Who starve the breadless poor with fraud and cant ; — 

He slew and saved them from the pangs of want. 

Nor was his solitary lawless charm 

Mere doubtlessness of soul and strength of arm ; 

He had his moods of kindness now and then, 

And feasted ev'n well-manner'd lowland men 

Who blew not up his Jacobitish flame, 

Nor prefaced with " pretender" Charles's name. 

Fierce, but by sense and kindness not unwon, 

He loved, respected ev'n, his wiser son ; 

And brook'd from him expostulations sage, 

When all advisers else were spurn'd with rage. 

Far happier times had moulded Ronald's mind, 
By nature too of more sagacious kind. 
His breadth of brow, and Roman shape of chin, 
Squared well with the firm man that reign'd within. 



284 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Contemning strife as childishness, he stood 

With neighbours on kind terms of neighbourhood, 

And whilst his father's anger nought avail'd, 

His rational remonstrance never fail'd. 

Full skilfully he managed farm and fold, 

Wrote, cipher'd, profitably bought and sold ; 

And, bless'd with pastoral leisure, deeply took 

Delight to be inform'd, by speech or book, 

Of that wide world beyond his mountain home, 

Where oft his curious fancy loved to roam. 

Oft while his faithful dog ran round his flock, 

He read long hours when summer warm'd the rock : 

Guests who could tell him aught were welcomed 

warm, 
Ev'n pedlars' news had to his mind a charm ; 
That like an intellectual magnet-stone 
Drew truth from judgments simpler than his own. 

His soul's proud instinct sought not to enjoy 
Romantic fictions, like a minstrel boy ; 
Truth, standing on her solid square, from youth 
He worshipp'd — stern uncompromising truth. 
His goddess kindlier smiled on him, to find 
A votary of her light in land so blind; 
She bade majestic History unroll 
Broad views of public welfare to his soul, 
Until he look'd on clannish feuds and foes 
With scorn, as on the wars of kites and crows; 
Whilst doubts assail'd him, o'er and o'er again, 
If men were made for kings or kings for men. 
At last, to Norman's horror and dismay, 
He flat denied the Stuarts' right to sway. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 285 

No blow-pipe ever whiten'd furnace fire, 

Quick as these words lit up his father's ire ; 

Who envied even old Abraham for his faith, 

Ordain'd to put his only son to death. 

He started up — in such a mood of soul 

The white bear bites his showman's stirring pole ; 

He danced too, and brought out, with snarl and howl 

"ODia! Dia!" and, "Dioul! Dioul!"* 

But sense foils fury — as the blowing whale 

Spouts, bleeds, and dyes the waves without avail — 

Wears out the cable's length that makes him fast, 

But, worn himself, comes up harpoon'd at last — 

E'en so, devoid of sense, succumbs at length 

Mere strength of zeal to intellectual strength. 

His son's close logic so perplex'd his pate, 

Th' old hero rather shunn'd than sought debate ; 

Exhausting his vocabulary's store 

Of oaths and nick-names, he could say no more, 

But tapp'd his mull,! roll'd mutely in his chair, 

Or only whistled Killicranky's air. 

Witch-legends Ronald scorn'd — ghost, kelpie, wraith 

And all the trumpery of vulgar faith; 

Grave matrons ev'n were shock'd to hear him slight 

Authenticated facts of second-sight — 

Yet never flinch'd his mockery to confound 

The brutal superstition reigning round. 

Reserved himself, still Ronald loved to scan 
Men's natures — and he liked the old hearty man ; 

♦ God and the devil — a favourite ejaculation of Highland sainta. 
t Snuff-horn. 



286 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

So did the partner of his heart and life — 

Wlio pleased her Ronald, ne'er displeased his wife. 

His sense, 'tis true, compared with Norman's son, 

Was common-place — his tales too long outspun ; 

Yet Allan Campbell's sympathising mind 

Had held large intercourse with human kind; 

Seen much, and gaily graphically drew 

The men of every country, clime, and hue ; 

Nor ever stoop'd, though soldier-like his strain, 

To ribaldry of mirth or oath profane. 

All went harmonious till the guest began 

To talk about his kindred, chief and clan, 

And, with his own biography engross'd, 

Mark'd not the changed demeanour of each host; 

Nor how old choleric Norman's cheek became 

Flush'd at the Campbell and Breadalbane name. 

Assigning, heedless of impending harm, 

Their steadfast silence to his story's charm, 

He touch'd a subject perilous to touch — 

Saying, " Midst this well-known vale I wonder'd much 

To lose my way. In boyhood, long ago, 

I roam'd, and loved each pathway of Glencoe ; 

Trapp'd leverets, pluck'd wild berries on its braes, 

And fish'd along its banks long summer days. 

But times grew stormy — bitter feuds arose, 

Our clan was merciless to prostrate foes. 

I never palliated my chieftain's blame, 

But mourn'd the sin, and redden'd for the shame 

Of that foul morn (Heaven blot it from the year !) 

Whose shapes and shrieks still haunt my dreaming ear. 

What could I do ? a serf — Glenlyon's page, 

A soldier sworn at nineteen years of age ; 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOC. 287 

T' have breathed one grieved remonstrance to our 

chief, 
The pit or gallows * would have cured my grief. 
Forced, passive as the musket in my hand, 
I march d — when, feigning royalty's command, 
Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's lord 
Sent forth extirminating fire and sword ; 
And troops at midnight through the vale defiled, 
Enjoin'd to slaughter woman, man, and child. 
My clansmen many a year had cause to dread 
The curse that day entail'd upon their head; 
Glenlyon's self confess'd th' avenging spell — 
I saw it light on him. 

" It so befel :— 
A soldier from our ranks to death was brought, 
By sentence deem'd too dreadful for his fault ; 
All was prepared — the coffin and the cart 
Stood near twelve muskets, level I'd at his heart. 
The chief, whose breast for ruth had still some room, 
Obtain'd reprieve a day before his doom ; — 
But of the awarded boon surmised no breath. 
The sufferer knelt, blindfolded, waiting death, — 
And met it. Though Glenlyon had desired 
The musketeers to watch before they fired ; 
If from his pocket they should see he drew 
A handkerchief — their volley should ensue : 
But if he held a paper in its place, 
It should be hail'd the sign of pardoning grace : — 
He, in a fatal moment's absent fit, 
Drew forth the handkerchief, and not the writ ; 

* To hang their vassals, or starve them to death in a dungeon, was a privilege 
>f the Highland chiefs who had hereditary jurisdictions. 



288 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Wept o'er the corpse and wrung his hands in woe, 
Crying, ' Here's thy curse again — Glencoe ! Glencoe !' " 

Though thus his guest spoke feelings just and clear, 

The cabin's patriarch lent impatient ear; 

Wroth that, beneath his roof, a living man 

Should boast the swine-blood of the Campbell clan ; 

He hasten'd to the door — call'd out his son 

To follow ; walk'd a space, and thus begun : — 

" You have not, Ronald, at this day to learn 

The oath I took beside my father's cairn, 

When you were but a babe a twelvemonth born ; 

Sworn on my dirk — by all that's sacred, sworn 

To be revenged for blood that cries to Heaven — 

Blood unforgiveable, and unforgiven : 

But never power, since then, have I possess'd 

To plant my dagger in a Campbell's breast. 

Now, here's a self-accusing partisan, 

Steep'd in the slaughter of Macdonald's clan ; 

I scorn his civil speech and sweet-lipp'd show 

Of pity — he is still our house's foe : 

I'll perjure not myself — but sacrifice 

The caitiff ere to-morrow's sun arise. 

Stand ! hear me — you're my son, the deed is just; 

And if I say — it must be done — it must : 

A debt of honour which my clansmen crave, 

Their very dead demand it from the grave." 

Conjuring then their ghosts, he humbly pray'd 

Their patience till the bldod-debt should be paid. 

But Ronald stopp'd him. — " Sir, Sir, do not dim 

Your honour by a moment's angry whim ; 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 289 

Your soul's too just and generous, were you cool. 

To act at once th' assassin and the fool. 

Bring me the men on whom revenge is due, 

And I will dirk them willingly as you ! 

But all the real authors of that black 

Old deed are gone — you cannot bring them back. 

And this poor guest, 'tis palpable to judge, 

In all his life ne'er bore our clan a grudge ; 

Dragg'd when a boy against his will to share 

That massacre, he loath'd the foul affair. 

Think, if your harden'd heart be conscience-proof, 

To stab a stranger underneath your roof! 

One who has broken bread within your gate — 

Reflect — before reflection comes too late, — 

Such ugly consequences there may be 

As judge and jury, rope and gallows-tree. 

The days of dirking snugly are gone by, 

Where could you hide the body privily ? 

When search is made for't?" 

" Plunge it in yon flood, 
That Campbells crimson'd with our kindred blood." 
" Ay, but the corpse may float — " 

" Pshaw ! dead men tell 
No tales — nor will it float if leaded well. 
I am determined !" — What could Ronald do 1 
No house within ear-reach of his halloo, 
Though that would but have publish'd household shame, 
He temporized with wrath he could not tame, 
And said "Come in, till night put off the deed, 
And ask a few more questions ere he bleed." 
They enter'd ; Norman with portentous air 
Strode to a nook behind the stranger's chair, 

23 



290 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

And, speaking nought, sat grimly in the shade, 

With dagger in his clutch beneath his plaid. 

His son's own plaid, should Norman pounce his prey. 

Was coil'd thick round his arm, to turn away 

Or blunt the dirk. He purposed leaving free 

The door, and giving Allan time to flee, 

Whilst he should wrestle with, (no safe emprise,) 

His father's maniac strength and giant size. 

Meanwhile he could nowise communicate 

The impending peril to his anxious mate ; 

But she, convinced no trifling matter now 

Disturb'd the wonted calm of Ronald's brow, 

Divined too well the cause of gloom that lower'd, 

And sat with speechless terror overpower'd. 

Her face was pale, so lately blithe and bland, 

The stocking knitting-wire shook in her hand. 

But Ronald and the guest resumed their thread 

Of converse, still its theme that day of dread. 

" Much," said the veteran, " much as I bemoan 

That deed, when half a hundred years have flown, 

Still on one circumstance I can reflect 

That mitigates the dreadful retrospect. 

A mother with her child before us flew, 

I had the hideous mandate to pursue ; 

But swift of foot, outspeeding bloodier men, 

I chased, o'ertook her in the winding glen, 

And show'd her palpitating, where to save 

Herself and infant in a secret cave ; 

Nor left them till I saw that they could mock 

Pursuit and search within that sheltering rock." 

" Heavens !" Ronald cried, in accents gladly wild, 

" That woman was my mother — I the child ! 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 291 

Of you unknown by name she late and air * 

Spoke, wept, and ever bless'd you in her prayer, 

Ev'n to her death ; describing you withal 

A well-look'd florid youth, blue-eyed and tall." 

They rose, exchanged embrace : the old lion then 

Upstarted, metamorphosed, from his den ; 

Saying, " Come and make thy home with us for life, 

Heaven-sent preserver of my child and wife. 

I fear thou'rt poor, that Hanoverian thing 

Rewards his soldiers ill." — " God save the king !" 

With hand upon his heart, old Allan said, 

" I wear his uniform, I eat his bread, 

And whilst I've tooth to bite a cartridge, all 

For him and Britain's fame I'll stand or fall." 

" Bravo !" cried Ronald. " I commend your zeal," 

Quoth Norman, " and I see your heart is leal ; 

But I have pray'd my soul may never thrive 

If thou should'st leave this house of ours alive. 

Nor shalt thou ; in this home protract thy breath 

Of easy life, nor leave it till thy death." 



The following morn arose serene as glass, 
And red Bennevis shone like molten brass ; 
While sunrise open'd flowers with gentle force, 
The guest and Ronald walk'd in long discourse. 
" Words fail me," Allan said, " to thank aright 
Your father's kindness shown me yesternight; 
Yet scarce I'd wish my latest days to spend 
A fireside fixture with the dearest friend : 

* Scotch for late and early. 



292 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

Besides, I've but a fortnight's furlough now, 

To reach Macallin More,* beyond Lochawe. 

I'd fain memorialise the powers that be, 

To deign remembrance of my wounds and me; 

My life-long service never bore the brand 

Of sentence — lash — disgrace or reprimand. 

And so I've written, though in meagre style, 

A long petition to his Grace Argyle; 

I mean, on reaching Innerara's shore, 

To leave it safe within his castle door." 

"Nay," Ronald said, "the letter that you bear 

Entrust it to no lying varlet's care ; 

But say a soldier of King George demands 

Access, to leave it in the Duke's own hands. 

But show me, first, the epistle to your chief, 

'Tis nought, unless succinctly clear and brief; 

Great men have no great patience when they read, 

And long petitions spoil the cause they plead." 

That day saw Ronald from the field full soon 

Return; and when they all had dined at noon, 

He conn'd the old man's memorial — lopp'd its length, 

And gave it style, simplicity, and strength ; 

'Twas finish'd in an hour — and in the next 

Transcribed by Allan in perspicuous text. 

At evening, he and Ronald shared once more 

A long and pleasant walk by Cona's shore. 

" I'd press you," quoth his host — (" I need not say 

How warmly) ever more with us to stay ; 

But Charles intends, 'tis said, in these same parts 

To try the fealty of our Highland hearts. 

* The Duke of Argyle. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 293 

'Tis my belief, that he and all his line 
Have — saving to be hang'd — no right divine ; 
From whose mad enterprise can only flow 
To thousands slaughter, and to myriads woe. 
Yet they have stirr'd my father's spirit sore, 
He flints his pistols — whets his old claymore — 
And longs as ardently to join the fray 
As boy to dance who hears the bagpipe play. 
Though calm one day, the next, disdaining rule, 
He'd gore your red coat like an angry bull: 
I told him, and he own'd it might be so, 
Your tempers never could in concert flow. 
But ' Mark,' he added, ' Ronald ! from our door 
Let not this guest depart forlorn and poor ; 
Let not your souls the niggardness evince 
Of lowland pedlar, or of German prince ; 
He gave you life — then feed him as you'd feed 
Your very father were he cast in need.' 
He gave — you'll find it by your bed to-night, 
A leathern purse of crowns, all sterling bright : 
You see I do you kindness not by stealth. 
My wife — no advocate of squandering wealth — 
Vows that it would be parricide, or worse, 
Should we neglect you — here's a silken purse, 
Some golden pieces through the network shine, 
'Tis proffer'd to you from her heart and mine. 
But come! no foolish delicacy, no! 
We own, but cannot cancel what we owe — 
This sum shall duly reach you once a year." 
Poor Allan's furrowed face and flowing tear 
Confess'd sensations which he could not speak. 
Old Norman bade him farewell kindly meek. 



294 THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 

At morn, the smiling dame rejoiced to pack 

With viands full the old soldier's havresack. 

He fear'd not hungry grass * with such a load, 

And Ronald saw him miles upon his road. 

A march of three days brought him to Lochfyne. 

Argyle, struck with his manly look benign, 

And feeling interest in the veteran's lot, 

Created him a sergeant on the spot — 

An invalid, to serve not — but with pay 

(A mighty sum to him,) twelve-pence a day. 

" But have you heard not," said Macallin More, 

" Charles Stuart 's landed on Eriska's shore, 

And Jacobites are arming ?" — " What ! indeed ! 

Arrived ! then I'm no more an invalid ; 

My new-got halbert I must straight employ 

In battle." — " As you please, old gallant boy : 

Your grey hairs well might plead excuse, 't is true, 

But now 's the time we want such men as you." 

In brief, at Innerara Allan staid, 

And join'd the banners of Argyle's brigade. 

Meanwhile, the old choleric shepherd of Glencoe 
Spurn'd all advice, and girt himself to go. 
What was't to him that foes would poind their fold, 
Their lease, their very beds beneath them sold ! 
And firmly to his text he would have kept, 
Though Ronald argued and his daughter wept. 
But midst the impotence of tears and prayer, 
Chance snatch'd them from proscription and despair. 

* When the hospitable Highlanders load a parting guest with provisions, they 
tell him he will need them, as he has to go over a great deal of hungry grass. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 295 

Old Norman's blood was headward wont to mount 
Too rapid from his heart's impetuous fount; 
And one day, whilst the German rats he cursed, 
An artery in his wise sensorium burst. 
The lancet saved him : but how changed, alas, 
From him who fought at Killiecrankie's pass ! 
Tame as a spaniel, timid as a child, 
He mutter'd incoherent words and smiled ; 
He wept at kindness, roll'd a vacant eye, 
And laugh'd full often when he meant to cry. 
Poor man ! whilst in this lamentable state, 
Came Allan back one morning to his gate, 
Hale and unburden'd by the woes of eild, 
And fresh with credit from Culloden's field. 
'Twas fear'd at first, the sight of him might touch 
The old Macdonald's morbid mind too much ; 
But no ! though Norman knew him and disclosed, 
Ev'n rallying memory, he was still composed ; 
Ask'd all particulars of the fatal fight, 
And only heaved a sigh for Charles's flight ; 
Then said, with but one moment's pride of air, 
It might not have been so had I been there ! 
Few days elapsed till he reposed beneath 
His grey cairn, on the wild and lonely heath ; 
Son, friends, and kindred of his dust took leave, 
And Allan, with the crape bound round his sleeve. 

Old Allan now hung up his sergeant's sword, 
And sat, a guest for life, at Ronald's board. 
He waked no longer at the barrack's drum, 
Yet still you'd see, when peep of day was come, 



296 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 

Th' erect tall red-coat, walking pastures round, 
Or delving with his spade the garden ground. 
Of cheerful temper, habits strict and sage, 
He reach'd, enjoy'd, a patriarchal age- 
Loved to the last by the Macdonalds. Near 
Their house, his stone was placed with many a tear ; 
And Ronald's self, in stoic virtue brave, 
Scorn'd not to weep at Allan Campbell's grave. 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.* 



I Love contemplating — apart 

From all his homicidal glory, 
The traits that soften to our heart 

Napoleon's glory ! 

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne 
Arm'd in our island every freeman, 

His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They suffer'd him — I know not how, 

Unprison'd on the shore to roam ; 
And aye was bent his longing brow 

On England's home. 

* This anecdote has heen published in several public journals, both French and 
British. My belief in its authenticity was confirmed by an Englishman long 
resident at Boulogne lately telling me, that he remembered the circumstance to 
have been generally talked of in the place. 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 297 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 

Of birds to Britain half-way over; 
With envy they could reach the white, 

Dear cliffs of Dover. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 

If but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banish'd sleep, 

He saw one morning — dreaming — doating, 

An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating; 

He hid it in a cave, and wrought 
The live-long day laborious ; lurking 

Until he launch'd a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
Description wretched ; such a wherry 

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
Or cross' d a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder ; 

Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, 
No sail — no rudder. 

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff with wattled willows ; 

And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd 
The foaming billows — 



298 NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
His little Argo sorely jeering ; 

Till tidings of him chanced to reach 
Napoleon's hearing. 

With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
Serene alike in peace and danger ; 

And, in his wonted attitude, 
Address'd the stranger : — 

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd ; 

Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassion'd." 

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 

" But — absent long from one another — 
Great was the longing that I had 

To see my mother." 

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
" Ye've both my favour fairly won ; 

A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son." 

He gave the tar a piece of gold, 

And, with a flag of truce, commanded 

He should be shipp'd to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantily shift 
To find a dinner, plain and hearty ; 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte". 




' With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
Serene alike in peace and danger ; 

And, in his wonted attitude, 
Address'd the stranger." 



p. 29a 



BENLOMOND. 



Hadst thou a genius on thy peak, 
What tales, white-headed Ben, 

Could'st thou of ancient ages speak, 
That mock th' historian's pen ! 

Thy long duration makes our lives 

Seem but so many hours ; 
And likens, to the bee's frail hives, 

Our most stupendous towers. 

Temples and towers thou'st seen begun, 
New creeds, new conquerors' sway; 

And, like their shadows in the sun, 
Hast seen them swept away. 

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied 

(Unlike life's little span,) 
Looks down, a Mentor, on the pride 

Of perishable man. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM. 



An original something, fair maid, you would win me 
To write — but how shall I begin ? 
For I fear I have nothing original in me — 
Excepting Original Sin. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 

[I wish I had preserved a copy of the Wiesbaden newspaper in which this 
anecdote of the " Child and Hind" is recorded ; but I have unfortunately lost 
it. The story, however, is a matter of fact ; it took place in 1838: every cir- 
cumstance mentioned in the following ballad literally happened. I was in 
Wiesbaden eight months ago, and was shown the very tree under which the 
boy was found sleeping with a bunch of flowers in his little hand. A similar 
occurrence is told by tradition, of Queen Genevova's child being preserved by 
being suckled by a female deer, when that Princess — an early Christian — and 
now a Saint in the Romish calendar, was chased to the desert by her heathen 
enemies. The spot assigned to the traditionary event is not a hundred miles 
from Wiesbaden, where a chapel still stands to her memory. 

I could not ascertain whether the Hind that watched my hero " Wilbelm," 
suckled him or not ; but it was generally believed that she had no milk to give 
him, and that the boy must have been for two days and a half entirely without 
food, unless it might be grass or leaves. If this was the case, the circum- 
stance of the Wiesbaden deer watching the child, was a still more wonderful 
token of instinctive fondness than that of the deer in the Genevova tradition 
who was naturally anxious to be relieved of her milk.] 



Come, maids and matrons, to caress 
Wiesbaden's gentle hind ; 
And, smiling, deck its glossy neck 
With forest flowers entwined. 

Your forest flowers are fair to show, 
And landscapes to enjoy ; 
But fairer is your friendly doe 
That watch'd the sleeping boy. 

'T was after church — on Ascension day- 
When organs ceased to sound, 
Wiesbaden's people crowded gay 
The deer-park's pleasant ground. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 301 

There, where Elysian meadows smile, 
And noble trees upshoot, 
The wild thyme and the camomile 
Smell sweetly at their root ; 

The aspen quivers nervously, 

The oak stands stilly bold — 

And climbing bindweed hangs on high 

His bells of beaten gold.* 

Nor stops the eye till mountains shine 
That bound a spacious view, 
Beyond the lordly, lovely Rhine, 
In visionary blue. 

There, monuments of ages dark 
Awaken thoughts sublime ; 
Till, swifter than the steaming bark, 
We mount the stream of time. 

The ivy there old castles shades 
That speak traditions high 
Of minstrels — tournaments — crusades, 
And mail-clad chivalry. 

Here came a twelve years' married pair — 
And with them wander'd free 
Seven sons and daughters, blooming fair, 
A gladsome sight to see. 

* There is only one kind of bindweed that i3 yellow, and that is the flower here 
mentioned, the Paniculatus Convolvulus. 



302 THE CHILD AND HIND. 

Their Wilhelm, little innocent, 
The youngest of the seven, 
Was beautiful as painters paint 
The cherubim of Heaven. 

By turns he gave his hand, so dear, 
To parent, sister, brother ; 
And each, that he was safe and near, 
Confided in the other. 

But Wilhelm loved the field-flowers bright, 
With love beyond all measure ; 
And cull'd them with as keen delight 
As misers gather treasure. 

Unnoticed, he contrived to glide 
Adown a greenwood alley, 
By lilies lured — that grew beside 
A streamlet in the vajley ; 

And there, where under beech and birch 
The rivulet meander'd, 
He stray 'd, till neither shout nor search 
Could track where he had wander'd. 

Still louder, with increasing dread, 
They call'd his darling name ; 
But 'twas like speaking to the dead — 
An echo only came. 

Hours pass'd till evening's beetle roams, 
And blackbird's songs begin ; 
Then all went back to happy homes, 
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 303 

The night came on — All others slept 
Their cares away till morn ; 
But sleepless, all night watch'd and wept 
That family forlorn. 

Betimes the town-crier had been sent 
With loud bell, up and down ; 
And told th' afflicting accident 
Throughout Wiesbaden's town : 

The father, too, ere morning smiled, 
Had all his wealth uncoffer'd ; 
And to the wight would bring his child, 
A thousand crowns had offer'd. 

Dear friends, who would have blush'd to take 
That guerdon from his hand, 
Soon join'd in groups — for pity's sake, 
The child-exploring band. 

The news reach'd Nassau's Duke : ere earth 
Was gladden'd by the lark, 
He sent a hundred soldiers forth 
To ransack all his park. 

Their side-arms glitter'd through the wood, 
With bugle-horns to sound ; 
Would that on errand half so good 
The soldier oft were found ! 

But though they roused up beast and bird 

From many a nest and den, 

No signal of success was heard 

From all the hundred men. 
24 



304 THE CHILD AND HIND. 

A second morning's light expands, 
Unfound the infant fair ; 
And Wilhelm's household wring their hands, 
Abandon'd to despair. 

But, haply, a poor artisan 
Search'd ceaselessly, till he 
Found safe asleep the little one, 
Beneath a beechen tree. 

His hand still grasp'd a bunch of flowers ; 
And (true, though wondrous) near, 
To sentry his reposing hours, 
There stood a female deer — 

Who dipp'd her horns at all that pass'd * 
The spot where Wilhelm lay ; 
Till force was had to hold her fast, 
And bear the boy away. 

Hail ! sacred love of childhood — hail ! 
How sweet it is to trace 
Thine instinct in Creation's scale, 
Ev'n 'neath the human race. 

To this poor w T anderer of the wild 
Speech, reason were unknown — 
And yet she watch'd a sleeping child 
As if it w r ere her own ; 

* The female deer has no such antlers as the male, and sometimes no horns at 
all : but I have observed many with short ones suckling 1 their fawns. 



THE CHILD AND HIND. 305 

And thou, Wiesbaden's artisan, 
Restorer of the boy, 
Was ever welcomed mortal man 
With such a burst of joy ? 

The father's ecstasy — the mother's 
Hysteric bosom's swell ; 
The sisters' sobs — the shout of brothers, 
I have not power to tell. 

The working man, with shoulders broad, 
Took blithely to his wife 
The thousand crowns ; a pleasant load, 
That made him rich for life. 

And Nassau's Duke the favourite took 
Into his deer-park's centre, 
To share a field with other pets 
Where deer-slayer cannot enter. 

There, whilst thou cropp'st thy flowery food, 
Each hand shall pat thee kind ; 
And man shall never spill thy blood — 
Wiesbaden's gentle hind. 



> 



THE JILTED NYMPH. 

A SONG, 
TO THE SCOTCH TUNE OF " WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'. 



I'm jilted, forsaken, outwitted ; 

Yet think not I'll whimper or brawl — 
The lass is alone to be pitied 

Who ne'er has been courted at all : 
Never by great or small, 
Woo'd or jilted at all ; 

Oh, how unhappy 's the lass 
Who has never been courted at all ! 

My brother call'd out the dear faithless, 

In fits I was ready to fall, 
Till I found a policeman who, scatheless, 

Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall ; 
Seized them, seconds and all — 
Pistols, powder and ball ; 

I wish'd him to die my devoted, 
But not in a duel to sprawl. 

What though at my heart he has tilted, 

What though I have met with a fall ? 
Better be courted and jilted, 

Than never be courted at all. 
Woo'd and jilted and all, 
Still I will dance at the ball ; 

And waltz and quadrille 

With light heart and heel, 
With proper young men, and tall. 



* 






I 




" Thy lips— thine eyes— thy little arms 
That wrap thy shoulders and thy head, 
In homeliest shawl of netted thread, 
Brown woollen net-work." p 307 



THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. 307 

But lately I've met with a suitor, 
Whose heart I have gotten in thrall, 

And I hope soon to tell you in future 
That I'm woo'd and married and all : 

Woo'd and married and all, 

What greater bliss can befall ? 

And you all shall partake of my bridal cake. 

When I'm woo'd and married, and all. 



ON GETTING HOME 

THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD, 

SIX YEARS OLD 
PAINTED BY EUGENIO LATILLA. 



Type of the Cherubim above, 
Come, live with me, and be my love ! 
Smile from my wall, dear roguish sprite, 
By sunshine and by candle-light ; 
For both look sweetly on thy traits : 
Or, were the Lady Moon to gaze, 
She'd welcome thee with lustre bland, 
Like some young fay from Fairyland. 
Cast in simplicity's own mould, 
How canst thou be so manifold 
In sportively distracting charms ? 
Thy lips — thine eyes — thy little arms 
That wrap thy shoulders and thy head, 
In homeliest shawl of netted thread, 



308 THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD. 

Brown woollen net- work ; yet it seeks 
Accordance with thy lovely cheeks, 
And more becomes thy beauty's bloom 
Than any shawl from Cashmere's loom. 

Thou hast not, to adorn thee, girl, 
Flower, link of gold, or gem or pearl — 
I would not let a ruby speck 
The peeping whiteness of thy neck: 
Thou need'st no casket, witching elf, 
No gawd — thy toilet is thyself; 
Not ev'n a rose-bud from the bower, 
Thyself a magnet — gem and flower. 

My arch and playful little creature, 
Thou hast a mind in every feature; 
Thy brow, with its disparted locks, 
Speaks language that translation mocks ; 
Thy lucid eyes so beam with soul, 
They on the canvas seem to roll — 
Instructing both my head and heart 
To idolise the painter's art. 

He marshals minds to Beauty's feast — 

He is Humanity's high priest 

Who proves, by heavenly forms on earth, 

How much this world of ours is worth. 

Inspire me, child, with visions fair ! 

For children, in Creation, are 

The only things that could be given 

Back, and alive — unchanged — to Heaven. 



THE PARR01 

A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE. 

The following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and 
association in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago 
m the Island of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged. 



The deep affections of the breast, 
That Heaven to living things imparts, 

Are not exclusively possess'd 
By human hearts. 

A parrot, from the Spanish Main, 

Full young, and early caged, came o'er 

With bright wings, to the bleak domain 
Of Mulla's shore. 

To spicy groves where he had won 
His plumage of resplendent hue, 

His native fruits, and skies, and sun, 
He bade adieu. 

For these he changed the smoke of turf, 
A heathery land and misty sky, 

And turn'd on rocks and raging surf 
His golden eye. 

But, petted, in our climate cold 

He lived and chatter'd many a day : 

Until with age, from green and gold 
His wings grew grey. 



310 SONG OF THE COLONISTS. 

At last, when blind and seeming dumb, 
He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, 

A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
To Mulla's shore ; 

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, 
The bird in Spanish speech replied, 

Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech, 
Dropt down, and died. 



SONG OF THE COLONISTS DEPARTING FOR 
NEW ZEALAND. 



Steer, helmsman, till you steer our way, 

By stars beyond the line ; 
We go to found a realm, one day, 



Like England's self to shine. 



Cheer up — cheer up — our course we'll keep, 
With dauntless heart and hand ; 

And when we've plough'd the stormy deep, 
We'll plough a smiling land : — 

A land, where beauties importune 

The Briton to its bowers, 
To sow but plenteous seeds, and prune 

Luxuriant fruits and flowers. 

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c. 



CORA LINN. 311 

There, tracts uncheer'd by human words, 

Seclusion's wildest holds, 
Shall hear the lowing of our herds, 

And tinklings of our folds. 

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c. 

Like. rubies set in gold, shall blush 

Our vineyards girt with corn ; 
And wine, and oil, and gladness gush 

From Amalthea's horn. 

Chorus. — Cheer up — cheer up, &c. 

Britannia's pride is in our hearts, 

Her blood is in our veins — 
We'll girdle earth with British arts, 

Like Ariel's magic chains. 

CHORUS. 

Cheer up — cheer up — our course we'll keep, 

With dauntless heart and hand; 
And when we've ploughed the stormy deep, 

We'll plough a smiling land. 



CORA LINN, OR THE FALLS OF THE CLYDE 

WRITTEN ON REVISITING IT IN 1837. 



The time I saw thee, Cora, last, 
'Twas with congenial friends; 
And calmer hours of pleasure past — 
My memory seldom sends. 



312 cora linn:. 

It was as sweet an Autumn day 
As ever shone on Clyde, 
And Lanark's orchards all the way 
Put forth their golden pride ; 

Ev'n hedges, busk'd in bravery, 
Look'd rich that sunny morn ; 
The scarlet hip and blackberry 
So prank'd September's thorn. 

In Cora's glen the calm how deep ! 
That trees on loftiest hill 
Like statues stood, or things asleep, 
All motionless and still. 

The torrent spoke, as if his noise 
Bade earth be quiet round, 
And give his loud and lonely voice 
A more commanding sound. 



■» 



His foam, beneath the yellow light 
Of noon, came down like one 
Continuous sheet of jaspers bright, 
Broad rolling by the sun. 

Dear Linn ! let loftier falling floods 
Have prouder names than thine ; 
And king of all, enthroned in woods, 
Let Niagara shine. 

Barbarian, let him shake his coasts 
With reeking thunders far, 
Extended like th' array of hosts 
In broad, embattled war ! 



CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. 313 

His voice appals the wilderness : 
Approaching thine, we feel 
A solemn, deep melodiousness, 
That needs no louder peal. 

More fury would but disenchant 
Thy dream-inspiring din ; 
Be thou the Scottish Muse's haunt, 
Romantic Cora Linn. 



CHAUCER AND WINDSOR. 



Long shalt thou flourish, Windsor ! bodying forth 

Chivalric times, and long shall live around 

Thy Castle — the old oaks of British birth, 

Whose gnarled roots, tenacious and profound, 

As with a lion's talons grasp the ground. 

But should thy towers in ivied ruin rot, 

There's one, thy inmate once, whose strain renown'd 

Would interdict thy name to be forgot ; 

For Chaucer loved thy bowers and trode this very spot. 

Chaucer ! our Helicon's first fountain-stream, 

Our morning star of song — that led the way 

To welcome the long-after coming beam 

Of Spenser's light and Shakspeare's perfect day. 

Old England's fathers live in Chaucer's lay, 

As if they ne'er had died. He group'd and drew 

Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay, 

That still they live and breathe in Fancy's view, 

Fresh beings fraught with truth's imperishable hue. 



MOONLIGHT. 



The kiss that would make a maid's cheek flush 

Wroth, as if kissing were a sin 

Amidst the Argus eyes and din 

And tell-tale glare of noon, 

Brings but a murmur and a blush, 

Beneath the modest moon. 

Ye days, gone — never to come back, 
When love return'd entranced me so, 
That still its pictures move and glow 
In the dark chamber of my heart ; 
Leave not my memory's future track — 
I will not let you part. 

'Twas moonlight, when my earliest love 
First on my bosom dropt her head ; 
A moment then concentrated 
The bliss of years, as if the spheres 
Their course had faster driven, 
And carried, Enoch-like above, 
A living man to Heaven. 

'Tis by the rolling moon we measure 
The date between our nuptial night 
And that blest hour which brings to light 
The fruit of bliss — the pledge of faith ; 
When we impress upon the treasure 
A father's earliest kiss. 



LINES. 315 

The Moon's the Earth's enamour'd bride ; 
True to him in her very changes, 
To other stars she never ranges : 

Though, cross'd by him, sometimes she dips 
Her light, in short offended pride, 
And faints to an eclipse. 

The fairies revel by her sheen ; 
'Tis only when the Moon's above 
The fire-fly kindles into love, 
And flashes light to show it : 
The nightingale salutes her Queen 
Of Heaven, her heav'nly poet. 

Then ye that love — by moonlight gloom 
Meet at my grave, and plight regard. 
Oh ! could I be the Orphean bard 
Of whom it is reported, 
That nightingales sung o'er his tomb, 
Whilst lovers came and courted. 



LINES ON MY NEW CHILD-SWEETHEART. 



I hold it a religious duty 
To love and worship children's beauty; 
They 've least the taint of earthly clod, 
They 're freshest from the hand of God ; 
With heavenly looks they make us sure 
The heaven that made them must be pure ; 



316 LINES. 

We love them not in earthly fashion, 
But with a beatific passion. 
I chanced to, yesterday, behold 
A maiden child of beauty's mould ; 
'Twas near, more sacred was the scene, 
The palace of our patriot Queen. 
The little charmer to my view 
Was sculpture brought to life anew, 
Her eyes had a poetic glow, 
Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow : 
And through her frock I could descry 
Her neck and shoulders' symmetry. 
'Twas obvious from her walk and gait 
Her limbs were beautifully straight ; 
I stopp'd th' enchantress, and was told, 
Though tall, she was but four years old. 
Her guide so grave an aspect wore 
I could not ask a question more ; 
But follow'd her. The little one 
Threw backward ever and anon 
Her lovely neck, as if to say, 
" I know you love me, Mister Grey ;" 
For by its instinct childhood's eye 
Is shrewd in physiognomy ; 
They well distinguish fawning art 
From sterling fondness of the heart. 

And so she flirted, like a true 
Good woman, till we bade adieu. 
'T was then I with regret grew wild, 
Oh, beauteous, interesting child ! 



THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. 317 

Why ask'd I not thy home and name ? 
My courage fail'd me — more's the shame. 
But where abides this jewel rare ? 
Oh, ye that own her, tell me where ! 
For sad it makes my heart and sore 
To think I ne'er may meet her more. 



THE LAUNCH OF A FIRST-RATE. 



WRITTEN ON WITNESSING THE SPECTACLE. 



England hails thee with emotion, 
Mightiest child of naval art, 

Heaven resounds thy welcome ! Ocean 
Takes thee smiling to his heart. 



■a 



Giant oaks of bold expansion 
O'er seven hundred acres fell, 

All to build thy noble mansion, 

Where our hearts of oak shall dwell. 

'Midst those trees the wild deer bounded, 

Ages long ere we were born, 
And our great-grandfathers sounded 

Many a jovial hunting-horn. 

Oaks that living did inherit 

Grandeur from our earth and sky, 

Still robust, the native spirit 
In your timbers shall not die. 
25 



TO THK UJN1TED STATES. 

Ship to shine in martial story, 

Thou shalt cleave the ocean's path 

Freighted with Britannia's glory 
And the thunders of her wrath. 

Foes shall crowd their sails and fly thee, 
Threat'ning havoc to their deck, 

When afar they first descry thee, 
Like the coining whirlwind's speck. 

Gallant bark ! thy pomp and beauty 
Storm or battle ne'er shall blast, 

Whilst our tars in pride and duty 
Nail thy colours to the mast. 



TO 

E UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA. 



United States, your banner wears 
Two emblems — one of fame ; 

Alas, the other that it bears 
Reminds us of your shame. 

Your standard's constellation types 
White freedom by its stars ; 

But what's the meaning of the stripes ? 
They mean your negroes' scars. 



LINES 

SUGGESTED BY THE STATUE OF ARNOLD VON WINKELRIED, 
STANZ-UNDEKWALDEN. 



Inspiring and romantic Switzer's land, 
Though mark'd with majesty by Nature's hand, 
What charm ennobles most thy landscape's face ? — 
Th' heroic memory of thy native race — 
Who forced tyrannic hosts to bleed or flee, 
And made their rocks the ramparts of (he free; 
Their fastnesses rolTtl back th' invading tide 
Of conquest, and their mountains taught them pride. 
1 fence they have patriot names — in fancy's eye, 
Bright as their glaciers glittering in the sky; 
Patriots who make the pageantries of kings 
Like shadows seem and unsubstantial things. 
Their guiltless glory mocks oblivion's rust, 
Imperishable, for their cause was just. 

Heroes of old ! to whom the Nine have strung 
Their lyres, and spirit-stirring anthems sung; 
Heroes of chivalry! whose banners grace 
The aisles of many a consecrated place, 

Confess how few of you can match in fame 
The martyr Winkelried's immortal name! 

* For an account, of this patriotic. Swiss and hia heroic death al the battle "l 
Sompnch, sec Dr. Beattic's "Switzerland [lluetrated," vol. ii., pp. Ill — 115. Sej 
also Note at the end of this Volume. 



EPISTLE, FROM ALGIERS, 

TO 

HORACE SMITH. 



Dear Horace ! be melted to tears, 
For I'm melting with heat as I rhyme ; 

Though the name of this place is All-jeers, 
'Tis no joke to fall in with its clime. 

With a shaver * from France who came o'er, 

To an African inn I ascend ; 
I am cast on a barbarous shore, 

Where a barber alone is my friend. 

Do you ask me the sights and the news 

Of this wonderful city to sing ? 
Alas ! my hotel has its mews, 

But no muse of the Helicon's spring. 

My windows afford me the sight 

Of a people all diverse in hue ; 
They are black, yellow, olive, and white, 

Whilst I in my sorrow look blue. 

* On board the vessel from Marseilles to Algiers I met with a fellow-passenger 
whom I supposed to be a physician from his dress and manners, and the attentions 
vhich he paid me to alleviate the suffering's of my sea-sickness. He turned out to 
3e a perruquier and barber in Algeria — but his vocation did not lower him in my 
estimation — for he continued his attentions until he passed my baggage through 
the customs, and helped me, when half dead with exhaustion, to the best hotel 



EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 321 

Here are groups for the painter to take, 

Whose figures jocosely combine, — 
The Arab disguised in his haik,* 

And the Frenchman disguised in his wine. 

In his breeches of petticoat size 

You may say, as the Mussulman goes, 

That his garb is a fair compromise 

'Twixt a kilt and a pair of small-clothes. 

The Mooresses, shrouded in white, 

Save two holes for their eyes to give room, 

Seem like corpses in sport or in spite 

That have slily whipp'd out of their tomb. 

The old Jewish dames make me sick : 

If I were the devil — I declare 
Such hags should not mount a broom-stick 

In my service to ride through the air. 

But hipp'd and undined as I am, 
My hippogriff's course I must rein — 

For the pain of my thirst is no sham, 

Though I'm bawling aloud for champagne. 

Dinner's brought ; but their wines ha^e no pith— 
They are flat as the statutes at law ; 

And for all that they bring me, dear Smith ! 
Would a glass of brown stout they could draw 

* A mantle worn by the natives. 



322 EPISTLE FROM ALGIERS. 

O'er each French trashy dish as I bend, 
My heart feels a patriot's grief! 

And the round tears, O England ! descend 
When I think on a round of thy beef. 

Yes, my soul sentimentally craves 
British beer. — Hail, Britannia, hail ! 

To thy flag on the foam of the waves, 
And the foam on thy flaggons of ale. 

Yet I own, in this hour of my drought, 
A dessert has most welcomely come ; 

Here are peaches that melt in the mouth, 
And grapes blue and big as a plum. 

There are melons too, luscious and great, 
But the slices I eat shall be few, 

For from melons incautiously eat 
Melancholic effects may ensue. 

Horrid pun! you'll exclaim; but be calm, 
Though my letter bears date, as you view, 

From the land of the date-bearing palm, 
I will palm no more puns upon you. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO, 

FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. 



Having met my illustrious friend the Composer Neukomm, at Algiers, se- 
veral years ago, I commenced this intended Oratorio at his desire, but he left 
the place before I proceeded farther in the poem ; and it has been thus left 
unfinished. 



Crush'd by misfortune's yoke, 

Job lamentably spoke — 

" My boundless curse be on 

The day that I was* born ; 

Quench'd be the star that shone 

Upon my natal morn. 

In the grave I long 

To shroud my breast; 

Where the wicked cease to wrong, 

And the weary are at rest." 

Then Eliphaz rebuked his wild despair: 

" What Heaven ordains, 'tis meet that man should bear. 

Lately, at midnight drear, 

A vision shook my bones with fear ; 

A spirit pass'd before my face, 

And yet its form I could not trace ; 

It stopp'd — it stood — it chill'd my blood, 

The hair upon my flesh uprose 

With freezing dread ! 

Deep silence reign'd, and, at its close, 

I heard a voice that said — 

1 Shall mortal man be more pure and just 

Than God, who made him from the dust ? 



324 FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO 

Hast thou not learnt of old, how fleet 

Is the triumph of the hypocrite ; 

How soon the wreath of joy grows wan 

On the brow of the ungodly man ? 

By the fire of his conscience he perisheth 

In an unblown flame : 

The Earth demands his death, 

And the Heavens reveal his shame/ ' 

JOB. 

Is this your consolation ? 

Is it thus that ye condole 

With the depth of my desolation, 

And the anguish of my soul 1 

But I will not cease to wail 

The bitterness of my bale. — 

Man that is born of woman, 

Short and evil is his hour ; 

He fleeth like a shadow, 

He fadeth like a flower. 

My days are pass'd — my hope and trust 

Is but to moulder in the dust. 

CHORUS. 

Bow, mortal, bow, before thy God, 

Nor murmur at his chastening rod ; 

Fragile being of earthly clay, 

Think on God's eternal sway! 

Hark ! from the whirlwind forth 

Thy Maker speaks — " Thou child of earth, 

Where wert thou when I laid 

Creation's corner-stone 1 



FRAGMENT OF AN ORATORIO. 



321 



When the sons of God rejoicing made, 

And the morning stars together sang and shone ? 

Hadst thou power to bid above . 

Heaven's constellations glow; 

Or shape the forms that live and move 

On Nature's face below ? 

Hast thou given the horse his strength and j<2ide ? 

He paws the valley with nostril wide, 

He smells far off the battle ; 

He neighs at the trumpet's sound — 

And his speed devours the ground, 

As he sweeps to where the quivers rattle, 

And the spear and shield shine bright, 

'Midst the shouting of the captains 

And the thunder of the fight." 



NOTES. 



THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 

P. 12,1. 15. 

And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
The hardy Byron to his native shore — 

The following - picture of his own distress, given by Byron in his simpie and 
interesting - narrative, justifies the description in page 12. 

After relating- the barbarity of the Indian cacique to his child, he proceeds 
thus : — " A day or two after we put to sea again, and crossed the great bay I men- 
tioned we had been at the bottom of when we first hauled away to the westward. 
The land here was very low and sandy, and something like the mouth of a river 
which discharged itself into the sea, and which had been taken no notice of by 
us before, as it was so shallow that the Indians were obliged to take every thing 
out of their canoes, and carry them over land. We rowed up the river four or five 
leagues, and then took into a branch of it that ran first to the eastward, and then 
to the northward : here it became much narrower, and the stream excessively 
rapid, so that we gained but little way, through we wrought very hard. At night 
we landed upon its banks, and had a most uncomfortable lodging, it being a perfect 
swamp, and we had nothing to cover us, though it rained excessively. The Indians 
were little better off than we, as there was no wood here to make their wigwams ; 
so that all they could do was to prop up the bark, which they carry in the bottom 
of their canoes, and shelter themselves as well as they could to the leeward of it. 
Knowing the difficulties they had to encounter here, they had provided themselves 
with some seal; but we had not a morsel to eat, after the heavy fatigues of the 
day, excepting a sort of root we saw the Indians make use of, which was very dis- 
agreeable to the taste. We laboured all next day against the stream, and fared as 
we had done the day before. The next day brought us to the carrying-place. 
Here was plenty of wood, but nothing to be got for sustenance. We passed this 
night, as we had frequently done, under a tree; but what we suffered at this time 
is not easy to be expressed. I had been three days at the oar without any kind 
of nourishment except the wretched root above mentioned. I had no shirt, for it 
had rotted off by bits. All my clothes consisted of a short grieko (something like 
a bear-skin), a piece of red cloth which had once been a waistcoat, and a ragged 
pair of trowsers, without shoes or stockings." 



B28 NOTES. 



P. 13, 1. 2. 

-a Briton and a friend! 



Don Patricio Gedd, a Scotch physician in one of the Spanish settlements, hos- 
pitably relieved Byron and his wretched associates, of which the commodore 
speaks in the warmest terms of gratitude. 

P. 13,1. 16. 

Or yield the lyre of Heaven another string. 
The seven strings of Apollo's harp were the symbolical representation of the 
seven planets. Herschel, by discovering an eighth, might be said to add another 
string to the instrument. 

P. 13,1. 17. 

The Swedish-sage. 
Linnseus. 

P. 14,1. 5. 

Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs Jlow, 
Loxias is the name frequently given to Apollo by Greek writers : it is met with 
more than once in the Choephora? of JEschylus. 

P. 15,1. 5. 

Unlocks a generous store at thy command, 
Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. 
See Exodus, chap. xvii. 3, 5, 6. 

P. 19,1. 28. 
Wild Obi flies— 
Among the negroes of the West Indies, Obi, or Orbiah, is the name of a magical 
power, which is believed by them to affect the object of its malignity with dismal 
calamities. Such a belief must undoubtedly have been deduced from the super- 
stitious mythology of their kinsmen on the coast of Africa. I have, therefore, 
personified Obi as the evil spirit of the African, although the history of the Afri- 
can tribes mentions the evil spirit of their religious creed by a different appellation. 

P. 19,1. 32. 

Sibir's dreary mines. 

Mr. Bell of Antermony, in his Travels through Siberia, informs us that the 
name of the country is universally pronounced Sibir by the Russians. 

P. 20, 1. 14. 
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man! 
The history of the partition of Poland, of the massacre in the suburbs of War- 
saw, and on the bridge of Prague, the triumphant entry of Suwarrow into the 
Polish capital, and the insult offered to human nature, by the blasphemous thanks 
offered up to Heaven, for victories obtained over men fighting in the sacred cause 
>f liberty, by murderers and oppressors, are events generally known. 



NOTES. 329 

P. 25, 1. 17. 

The shrill horn blew ; 
The negroes in the West Indies are summoned to their morning work by a shell 
or horn. 

P 26, 1. 4. 

How long was Timour's iron sceptre sway'd. 

To elucidate this passage, I shall subjoin a quotation from the preface to Letters 
from a Hindoo Rajah, a work of elegance and celebrity. 

"The impostor of Mecca, had established, as one of the principles of his doc- 
trine, the merit of extending it either by persuasion, or the sword, to all parts of 
the earth. How steadily this injunction was adhered to by his followers, and with 
what success it was pursued, is well known to all who are in the least conversant 
in history. 

" The same overwhelming torrent which had inundated the greater part of Afri- 
ca, burst its way into the very heart of Europe ; and, covering many kingdoms 
of Asia with unbounded desolation, directed its baneful course to the flourishing 
provinces of Hindostan. Here these fierce and hardy adventurers, whose only 
improvement had been in the science of destruction, who added the fury of fa- 
naticism to the ravages of war, found the great end of their conquest opposed by 
objects which neither the ardour of their persevering zeal, nor savage barbarity, 
could surmount. Multitudes were sacrificed by the cruel hand of religious per- 
secution, and whole countries were deluged in blood, in the vain hope, that by the 
destruction of a part the remainder might be persuaded, or terrified, into the pro- 
fession of Mahomedism. But all these sanguinary efforts were ineffectual ; and 
at length, being fully convinced that, though they might extirpate, they could 
never hope to convert, any number of the Hindoos, they relinquished the imprac- 
ticable idea with which they had entered upon their career of conquest, and con- 
tented themselves with the acquirement of the civil dominion and almost univer- 
sal empire of Hindostan." — Letters from, a Hindoo Rajah, by Eliza Hamilton. 

P. 26, 1. 18. 

And braved the stormy Spirit of the Cape; 
See the description of the Cape of Good Hope, translated from Camoens, by 
Mickle. 

P. 26, 1. 32. 
While famish' d nations died along the shore : 
The following account of British conduct, and its consequences, in Bengal, 
will afford a sufficient idea of the fact alluded to in this passage. 

After describing the monoply of salt, betel-nut, and tobacco, the historian pro- 
ceeds thus : — " Money in this current came but by drops ; it could not quench tho 
thirst of those who waited in India to receive it. An expedient, such as it was, 
remained to quicken its pace. The natives could live with little salt, but could 
not want food. Some of the agents saw themselves well situated for collecting 
the rice into stores ; they did so. They knew the Gentoos would rather die than 



330 NOTES. 

violate the principles of their religion by eating flesh. The alternative would 
therefore be between giving what they had, or dying. The inhabitants sunk ; — 
they that cultivated the land, and saw the harvest at the disposal of others, planted 
in doubt — scarcity ensued. Then the monoply was easier managed — sickness en- 
sued. In some districts the languid living left the bodies of their numerous dead 
unburied." — Short History of the English Transactions in the East Indies, p. 145. 

P. 27, 1. 15. 
Nine times have Drama's wheels of lightning hurVd 
His avful presence o'er the alarmed world; 
Among the sublime fictions of the Hindoo mythology, it is one article of belief, 
that the Deity Brama has descended nine times upon the world in various forms, 
and that he is yet to appear a tenth time, in the figure of a warrior upon a white 
horse, to cut off all incorrigible offenders. Avater is the word used to express 
his descent. 

P. 28, 1. 2. 
Shall Serisirattee wave her hallow'' 'd wand! 
And Camdco bright, and Ganesa sublime, 
Camdeo is the God of Love in the mythology of the Hindoos. Ganesa and 
Seriswattee correspond to the pagan deities, Janus and Minerva. 

P. 32, 1. 32. 

The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade ! — 
Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade. — Dryden. 

P. 35, 1. 25. 

Thy woes, Arion ! 
Falconer, in his poem, " The Shipwreck," speaks of himself by the name of 
Arion. — See Falconer's " Shipwreck," Canto III. 

P. 36, 1. 6. 

TA.fi robber Moor, 
See Schiller's tragedy of "The Robbers," Scene v. 

P. 36, 1. 24. 
What millions died — that Caisar might be great! 
The carnage occasioned by the wars of Julius Caesar has been usually estimated 
at two millions of men. 

P. 36, 1. 25. 

Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, 
March' d by their Charles to Dneiper's sicampy shore; 
" In this extremity," (says the biographer of Charles XII. of Sweden, speaking 
of his .nilitary exploits before the battle of Pultowa,) " the memorable winter of 
1709, which was still more remarkable in that part of Europe than in France, 



NOTES. 331 

destroyed numbers of his troops ; for Charles resolved to brave the seasons as he 
had done his enemies, and ventured to make long' marches during 1 this mortal 
cold. It was in one of these marches that two thousand men fell down dead 
with cold before his eyes." 

P. 37, 1. 17. 

For, as Iona's saint, 
The natives of the island of Iona have an opinion, that on certain evenings 
every year the tutelary saint Columba is seen on the top of the church spires 
counting the surrounding islands, to see that they have not been sunk by the 
power of witchcraft. 

P. 38, 1. 4. 

And pari, like Ajut — never to return! ' 

See the history of Ajut and Anningait, in "The Rambler." 



THEODRIC. 

P. 49, 1. 3. 

That gave the glacier tops their richest glow, 
The sight of the glaciers of Switzerland, I am told, has often disappointed tra- 
vellers who had perused the accounts of their splendour and sublimity given by 
Bourrit and other describers of Swiss scenery. Possibly Bourrit, who had spent 
his life in an enamoured familiarity with the beauties of Nature in Switzerland, 
may have leaned to the romantic side of description. One can pardon a man for 
a sort of idolatry of those imposing objects of Nature which heighten our ideas 
of the bounty of Nature or Providence, when we reflect that the glaciers — those 
seas of ice — are not only sublime, but useful : they are the inexhaustible reser- 
voirs which supply the principal rivers of Europe ; and their annual melting is in 
proportion to the summer heat which dries up those rivers and makes them need 
that supply. 

That the picturesque grandeur of the glaciers should sometimes disappoint the 
traveller, will not seem surprising to any one who has been much in a mountain- 
ous country, and recollects that the beauty of Nature in such countries is not only 
variable, but capriciously dependent on the weather and sunshine. There are 
about four hundred different glaciers,* according to the computation of M. Bour- 
rit, between Mont Blanc and the frontiers of the Tyrol. The full effect of the 
most lofty and picturesque of them can, of course, only be produced by the rich- 
est and warmest lights of the atmosphere; and the very heat which illuminates 
them must have a changing influence on many of their appearances. I imagine 
it is owing to this circumstance, namely, the casualty and changeableness of the 
appearance of some of the glaciers, that the impressions made by them on the 

* Occupying, if taken together, a surface of 130 square leagues. 



332 NOTES. 

minds of other and more transient travellers have been less enchanting than those 
described by M. Bourrit. On one occasion M. Bourrit seems even to speak of a 
past phenomenon, and certainly one which no other spectator attests in the same 
terms, when he says, that there once existed, between the Kandel Steig and Lau- 
terbrun, "a passage amidst singular glaciers, sometimes resembling magical 
towns of ice, with pilasters, pyramids, columns, and obelisks, reflecting to the 
sun the most brilliant hues of the finest gems." — M. Bourrit's description of the 
Glacier of the Rhone, is quite enchanting : — "To form an idea," he says, " of tins 
suburb spectacle, figure in your mind a scaffolding of transparent ice, filling a 
space of two miles, rising to the clouds, and darting flashes of light like the sun. 
Nor were the several parts less magnificent and surprising. One might see, as it 
were, the streets and buildings of a city, erected in the form of an amphitheatre, 
and embellished with pieces of water, cascades, and torrents. The effects were as 
prodigious as the immensity and the height ; — the most beautiful azure — the most 
splendid white — the regular appearance of a thousand pyramids of ice, are more 
easy to be imagined than described." — Bourrit, iii. 163. 

P. 49, 1. 9. 

From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin ; 
Laborde, in his " Tableau de la Suisse," gives a curious account of this animal, 
the wild sharp cry and elastic movements of which must heighten the picturesque 
appearance of its haunts. — " Nature," says Laborde, " has destined it to mountains 
covered with snow : if it is not exposed to keen cold, it becomes blind. Its agil- 
ity in leaping much surpasses that of the chamois, and would appear incredible to 
those who have not seen it. There is not a mountain so high or steep to which it 
will not trust itself, provided it has room to place its feet; it can scramble along 
the highest wall, if its surface be rugged." 

P. 49, 1. 15. 

enamelVd moss. 



The moss of Switzerland, as well as that of the Tyrol, is remarkable for a bright 
smoothness, approaching to the appearance of enamel. 

P. 53,1. 19. 
How dear seem'd ev'n the waste and wild Shrtck-horn, 
The Shreck-horn means, in German, the Peak of Terror. 

P. 53, 1. 24. 
Blindfold his native hills he could have known! 
I have here availed myself of a striking expression of the Emperor Napoleon 
respecting his recollections of Corsica, which is recorded in Las Cases's History 
of the Emperor's Abode at St. Helena. 



NOTES. 333 

O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 

P. 79, 1. 1. 

Innisfail, the ancient name of Ireland. 

P. 80*1. 5. 
Kerne, the plural of Kern, an Irish foot-soldier. In this sense the word is used 
by Shakspeare. Gainsford, in his Glories of England, says, " They (the Irish) are 
desperate in revenge, and their kerne think no man dead until his head be off.'* 

P. 80, 1. 24. 
Shieling, a rude cabin or hut>« 

P. 81, 1. 2. 

In Erin's yellow vesture clad. 
Yellow, dyed from saffron, was the favourite colour of the ancient Irish. When 
the Irish chieftains came to make terms with Q,ueen Elizabeth's lord-lieutenant, 
we are told by Sir John Davis, that they came to court in saffron-coloured uni- 
forms. 

P. 81,1. 15. 
Mdrat, a drink made of the juice of mulberry mixed with honey. 

P. 82,1. 17. 
Their tribe, they said, their high degree. 
Was sung in Tara's psaltery ; 

The pride of the Irish in ancestry was so great, that one of the O'Neals being 
told that Barret of Castlemone had been there only 400 years, he replied, — that he 
hated the clown as if he had come there but yesterday. 

Tara was the place of assemblage and feasting of the petty princes of Ireland. 
Very splendid and fabulous descriptions are given by the Irish historians of the 
pomp and luxury of those meetings. The psaltery of Tara was the grand national 
register of Ireland. The grand epoch of political eminence in the early history of 
the Irish is the reign of their great and favourite monarch, Ollam Fodlah, who 
reigned, according to Keating, about 950 years before the Christain sera. Under 
him was instituted the grand Fes at Tara, which it is pretended was a triennial con- 
vention of the states, or a parliament ; the members of which were the Druids, and 
other learned men, who represented the people in that assembly. Very minute 
accounts are given by Irish annalists of the magnificence and order of these en- 
tertainments ; from which, if credible, we might collect the earliest traces of he- 
raldry that occur in history. To preserve order and regularity in the great num- 
ber and variety of the members who met on such occasions, the Irish historians 
inform us that, when the banquet was ready to be served up, the shield-bearers of 
the princes, and other members of the convention, delivered in their shields and 
targets which were readily distinguished by the coats of arms emblazoned upon 

26 



334 NOTES. 

them. These were arranged by the grand marshal and principal herald, and hung 
upon the walls on the right of the table; and, upon entering- the apartments, each 
member took his seat under his respective shield or target, without the slightest 
disturbance. The concluding days of the meeting, it is allowed by the Irish An- 
tiquaries, were spent in very free excess of conviviality : but the first six, they say, 
were devoted to the examination and settlement of the annals of the kingdom. 
These were publicly rehearsed. When they had passed the approbation of the as- 
sembly, they were transcribed into the authentic chronicles of the nation, which 
was called the Register, or Psalter, of Tara. 

Col. Vallancey gives a translation of an old Irish fragment, found in Trinity- 
college. Dublin, in which the palace of the above assembly is thus described, as 
it existed in the reign of Cormac : — 

"In the reign of Cormac, the palace of Tara was nine hundred feet square; the 
diameter of the surrounding rath, seven dice or casts of a dart ; it contained one 
hundred and fifty apartments; one hundred and fifty dormitories, or sleeping- 
rooms for guards, and sixty men in each ; the height was twenty-seven cubits ; 
there were one hundred and fifty common drinking horns, twelve doors, and one 
thousand guests daily, besides princes, orators, and men of science, engravers of 
gold and silver, carvers, modellers, and nobles.'' The Irish description of the 
banqueting-hall is thus translated: "Twelve stalls or divisions in each wing; 
sixteen attendants on each side, and two to each table ; one hundred guests in all." 

P. 82, 1. 29. 

And stemm'd De Bourgo' s chivalry? 
The house of O'Connor had a right to boast of their victories over the English. 
It was a chief of the O'Connor race who gave a check to the English champion 
Dc Courcy, so famous for his personal strength, and for cleaving a helmet at one 
blow of his sword, in the presence of the kings of France and England, when the 
French champion declined the combat with him. Though ultimately conquered 
by the English under De Bourgo, the O'Connors had also humbled the pride of 
that name on a memorable occasion : viz., when Walter De Bourgo, an ancestor 
of that De Bourgo who won the battle of Athunree, had become so insolent as to 
make excessive demands upon the territories of Connaught, and to bid defiance 
to all the rights and properties reserved by the Irish chiefs. Eath O'Connor, a 
near descendant of the famous Cathal, sumamed of the Bloody Hand, rose against 
the usurper, and defeated the English so severely, that their general died of cha- 
grin after the battle. 

P. 83, 1. 3. 

Or beal-fircs for your jubilee 
The month of May is to this day called Mi Beal tiennie, i. e., the month of 
Beal's fire, in the original language of Ireland, and hence, I believe, the name of 
the Beltan festival in the Highlands. These fires were lighted on the summits of 
mountains (the Irish antiquaries say) in honour of the sun ; and are supposed, by 
those conjecturing gentlemen, to prove the origin of the Irish from some nation 
who worshipped Baal or Bolus. Many hills in Ireland still retain the name of 



NOTES. 335 

Cnoc Greine, i. «., the Hill of the Sun ; and on all are to be seen the ruina of 
druidical altars. 

P. 83, 1. 24. 

And play my clarshech by thy side. 
The clarshech, or harp, the principal musical instrument of the Hibernian bards, 
does not appear to be of Irish origin, nor indigenous to any of the British 
islands. — The Britons undoubtedly were not acquainted with it during the resi- 
dence of the Romans in their country, as in all their coins, on which musical in- 
struments are represented, we see only the Roman lyre, and not the British teylin, 
or harp. 

P. 84, 1. 3. 

And saw at dawn the lofty bawn 
Bawn, from the Teutonic Bawen — to construct and secure with branches of 
trees, was so called because the primitive Celtic fortifications were made by dig- 
ging a ditch, throwing up a rampart, and on the latter fixing stakes, which were 
interlaced with boughs of trees. This word is used by Spenser ; but it is inacou- 
rately called by Mr. Todd, his annotator, an eminence. 

P. 87, 1. 2. 

To speak the malison of heaven. 
If the wrath which I have ascribed to the heroine of this little piece should seem 
to exhibit her character as too unnaturally stripped of patriotic and domestic affec- 
tions, I must beg leave to plead the authority of Corneille in the representation of 
a similar passion : I allude to the denunciation of Camille, in the tragedy of 
" Horace." When Horace, accompanied by a soldier bearing the three swords of 
the Curiatii, meets his sister, and invites her to congratulate him on his victory, 
she expresses only her grief, which he attributes at first only to her feelings for the 
loss of her two brothers ; but when she bursts forth into reproaches against him 
as the murderer of her lover, the last of the Curiatii, he exclaims : 

" O ciel ! qui vit jamais une pareille rage ! 
Crois-tu done que je sois insensible a l'outrage, 
Que je soufl're en mon sang ce mortal deshonneur 
Aime, aime cette mort qui fait notre bonheur ; 
Et preiere du moins au souvenir d'un homme 
Ce que doit ta naissance aux interets de Rome." 

At the mention of Rome, Camille breaks out into this apostrophe : 

" Rome, l'unique objet de mon ressentiment ! 
Rome, a qui vient ton bras d'immoler mon amant ! 
Rome qui t'a vu naitre et que ton coeur adore ! 
Rome enfin que je hais parce qu'elle t'honore ! 
Puissent tous ses voisins ensemble conjures 
Saper ses fondements encor mal assures ; 
Et si ce n'est assez de toute l'ltalie, 
Que l'Orient contre elle a l'Occident s'allie ; 
Que cent peuples unis des bouts de l'univers 
Passent pour la detruire etles monts et les mers ; 



336 NOTES 

Qu'ellememe sur soi renverse ses murailles, 
Et de ses propres mains dechire ses entrailles ! 
Que le courroux du ciel allume par mes voeux 
Fasse pleuvoir sur elle un deluge de feux ! 
Puisse-je de mes yeux y voir lomber ce foudre, 
"Voir ses maisons en cendre et tes lauriers eu poudre, 
Voir le dernier Romain a son dernier soupir, 
Moi seule en etre cause, et mourir de plaisir i" 

P. 87, 1. 7. 
And go to Athunree ! (I cried) 

In the reign of Edward the Second, the Irish presented to Pope John the 
Twenty-second a memorial of their suffering's under the English, of which the 
language exhibits all the strength of despair. " Ever since the English (say they) 
first appeared upon our coasts, they entered our territories under a certain specious 
pretence of charity, and external hypocritical show of religion, endeavouring at 
the same time, by every artifice malice could suggest, to extirpate us root and 
branch, and without any other right than that of the strongest ; they have so far 
succeeded by base fraudulence, and cunning, that they have forced us to quit our 
fair and ample habitations and inheritances, and to take refuge like wild beasts in 
the mountains, the woods, and the morasses of the country ; — nor even can the 
caverns and dens protect us against their insatiable avarice. They pursue us even 
into these frightful abodes ; endeavouring to dispossess us of the wild uncultivated 
rocks, and arrogate to themselves the property of every place on which we can 
stamp the figure of our feet." 

The greatest effort ever made by the ancient Irish to regain their native inde- 
pendence, was made at the time when they called over the brother of Robert Bruce 
from Scotland. William De Bourgo, brother to the Earl of Ulster, and Richard 
de Bermingham, were sent against the main body of the native insurgents, who 
were headed rather than commanded by Felim O'Connor. The important battle 
which decided the subjection of Ireland, took place on the 10th of August, 1315. 
It was the bloodiest that ever was fought between the two nations, and continued 
throughout the whole day, from the rising to the setting sun. The Irish fought 
with inferior discipline, but with great enthusiasm. They lost ten thousand men, 
among whom were twenty-nine chiefs of Connaught. Tradition states that, alter 
this terrible day, the O'Connor family, like the Fabian, were so nearly extermi- 
nated, that; throughout all Connaught not one of the name remained, except 
Felim's brother, who was capable of bearing arms. 



LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 



P. 89. 

Lochiel, the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and descended from 
ancestors distinguished in their narrow sphere for great personal prowess, was a 
man worthy of a better cause and fate than that in which he embarked, the enter- 
prise of the Stuarts in 1745. His memory is still fondly cherished among the 



NOTES. 337 

Highlanders, by the appellation of the "gentle Lochiel;" for he was famed for hia 
social virtues as much as his martial and magnanimous (though mistaken) loyalty. 
His influence was so important among the Highland chiefs, that it depended on 
his joining with his clan whether the standard of Charles should be raised or not 
in 1745. Lochiel was himself too wise a man to be blind to the consequences of 
so hopeless an enterprise, but his sensibility to the point of honour overruled his 
wisdom. Charles appealed to his loyalty, and he could not brook the reproaches 
of his Prince. When Charles landed at Borrodale, Lochiel went to meet him, but 
on his way called at his brother's house (Cameron of Fassafern), and told him on 
what errand he was going ; adding, however, that he meant to dissuade the Prince 
from his enterprise. Fassafern advised him in that case to communicate his mind 
by letter to Charles. " No," said Lochiel, " I think it due to my Prince to give 
him my reasons in person for refusing to join his standard." — "Brother," replied 
Fassafern, "I know you better than you know yourself: if the Prince once sets 
eyes on you, he will make you do what he pleases." The interview accordingly 
took place ; and Lochiel, with many arguments, but in vain, pressed the Pretender 
to return to France, and reserve himself and his friends for a more favourable oc- 
casion, as he had come, by his own acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or 
adherents : or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends should meet and 
deliberate what was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound up to the 
utmost impatience, paid no regard to this proposal, but answered, " that he was 
determined to put all to the hazard." " In a few days," said he, " I will erect the 
royal standard, and proclaim to the people of Great Britain, that Charles Stuart is 
come over to claim the crown of his ancestors, and to win it, or perish in the at- 
tempt. Lochiel, who my father has often told me was our firmest friend, may stay 
at home and learn from the newspapers the fate of his Prince." — "No," said Lo- 
chiel, " I will share the fate of my Prince, and so shall every man over whom 
nature or fortune hath given me any power." 

The other chieftains who followed Charles embraced his cause with no better 
hopes. It engages our sympathy most strongly in their behalf, that no motive, 
but their fear to be reproached with cowardice or disloyalty, impelled them to the 
hopeless adventure. Of this we have an example in the interview of Prince 
Charles with Clanronald, another leading chieftain in the rebel army. 

"Charles," says Home, "almost reduced to despair, in his discourse with Bois- 
dale, addressed the two Highlanders with great emotion, and, summing up his 
arguments for taking arms, conjured them to assist their Prince, their country 
man, in his utmost need. Clanronald and his friend, though well inclined to the 
cause, positively refused, and told him that to take up arms without concert or 
support was to pull down certain ruin on their own heads. Charles persisted, 
argued, and implored. During this conversation (they were on shipboard) the 
parties walked backwards and forwards on the deck ; a Highlander stood near 
them, armed at all points, as was then the fashion of his country. He was a 
younger brother of Kinlock Moidart, and had come off to the ship to enquire for 
news, not knowing who was aboard. When he gathered from their discourse 
that the stranger was the Prince of Wales ; when he heard his chief and his bro- 
ther refuse to take arms with their Prince, his colour went and came, his eyes 



338 NOTES. 

sparkled, he shifted his place, and grasped his sword. Charles observed his de- 
meanour, and turning- briskly to him called out, 'Will you assist me?' — 'I will, 
I will,' said Ronald : ' though no other man in the Highlands should draw a sword, 
I am ready to die for you !' Charles, with a profusion of thanks to his champion, 
said, he wished all the Highlanders were like him. Without further deliberation, 
the two Macdonalds declared that they would also join, and use their utmost en- 
deavours to engage their countrymen to take arms." — Home's Hist. Rebellion, p. 40. 

P. 89, 1. 15. 

Weep, Albin! 
The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands. 

P. 91,1. 11. 

Lo, anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
Behold, where he Jlies on his desolate path .' 

The lines allude to the many hardships of the royal sufferer. 

An account of the second sight, in Irish called Taish, is thus given in Martin's 
Description of the Western Isles of Scotland. 

" The second sight is a singular faculty of seeing an otherwise invisible object, 
without any previous means used by the person who sees it for that end. The 
vision makes sucb a lively impression upon the seers, that they neither see nor 
think of anything else except the vision as long as it continues ; and then they 
appear pensive or jovial according to the object which was represented to them. 

"At the sight of a vision the eyelids of the person are erected, and the eyes con- 
tinue staring until the object vanishes. This is obvious to others who are stand- 
ing by when the persons happen to see a vision ; and occurred more than once 
to my own observation, and to others that were with me. 

" There is one in Skie, of whom his acquaintance observed, that when he sees 
a vision the inner part of his eyelids turns so far upwards, that, after the object 
disappears, he must draw them down with his fingers, and sometimes employ others 
to draw them down, which he finds to be much the easier way. 

" This faculty of the second sight does not lineally descend in a family, as some 
have imagined ; for I know several parents who are endowed with it, and their 
children are not ; and vice versa. Neither is it acquired by any previous compact. 
And after strict inquiry, I could never learn from any among them, that this fac- 
ulty was communicable to any whatsoever. The seer knows neither the object, 
time, nor place of a vision before it appears ; and the same object is often seen by 
different persons living at a considerable distance from one another. The true 
way of judging as to the time and circumstances is by observation; for several 
persons of judgment who are without this faculty are more capable to judge of 
the design of a vision than a novice that is a seer. If an object appear in the day 
or night, it will come to pass sooner or later accordingly. 

" If an object is seen early in a morning, which is not frequent, it will be accom- 
plished in a few hours afterwards; if at noon, it will probably be accomplished 
that very day ; if in the evening, perhaps that night ; if after candles be lighted, 



NOTES. 339 

it will be accomplished that night: the latter always an accomplishment by weeks, 
months, and sometimes years, according' to the time of the night the vision is seen. 

" When a shroud is seen about one, it is a sure prognostic of death. The time 
is judged according to the height of it about, the person; for if it is not seen 
above the middle, death is not to be expected for the space of a year, and perhaps 
some months longer: and as it is frequently seen to ascend higher towards the 
head, death is concluded to be at hand within a few days, if not hours, as daily 
experience confirms. Examples of this kind were shown mo, when.the person of 
whom the observations were then made was in perfect health. 

" It is ordinary with them to see houses, gardens, and trees in places void of all 
these, and this in process of time is wont to be accomplished : as at Mogslot, in 
the Isle of Skie, where there were but a few sorry low houses, thatched with straw ; 
yet in a few years the vision, which appeared often, was accomplished by the 
building of several good houses in the very spot represented to the seers, and by 
the planting of orchards there. 

" To see a spark of fire is a forerunner of a dead child, to be seen in the arms 
of those persons ; of which there are several instances. To see a seat empty at the 
time of sitting in it, is a presage of that person's death quickly after it. 

"When a novice, or one that has lately obtained the second sight, sees a vision 
in the night-time without doors, and comes near a fire, he presently falls into a 
swoon. 

" Some find themselves as it were in a crowd of people, having a corpse, which 
they carry along with them ; and after such visions the seers come in sweating, 
and describe the vision that appeared. If there be any of their acquaintance 
among them, they give an account of their names, as also of the bearers ; but they 
know nothing concerning the corpse." 

Horses and cows (according to the same credulous author) have certainly some- 
times the same faculty ; and he endeavours to prove it by the signs of fear which 
the animals exhibit, when second-sighted persons see visions in the same place. 

"The seers (he continues) are generally illiterate and well-meaning people, and 
altogether void of design: nor could I ever learn that any of them ever made the 
least gain by it ; neither is it reputable among them to have that faculty. Besides, 
the people of the Isles are not so credulous as to believe implicitly before the thing 
predicted is accomplished ; but when it is actually accomplished afterwards, it is 
not in their power to deny it, without offering violence to their own sense and 
reason. Besides, if the seers were deceivers, can it be reasonable to imagine that 
all the islanders who have not the second sight should combine together, and 
offer violence to their understandings and senses, to enforce themselves to believe 
a lie from age to age 1 There are several persons among them whose title and 
education raise them above the suspicion of concurring with an impostor merely 
to gratify an illiterate contemptible set of persons ; nor can reasonable persons be- 
lieve that children, horses, and cows, should be pre-engaged in a combination in 
favour of the second sight." — Martin's Description of the Western Isles of Scot- 
land, p. 3. 11. 



;40 NOTES. 

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
P. 126,1. 6. 



From, merry mock-bird's song.- 



The mocking-bird is of the form of, but larger than, the thrush ; and the colours 
are a mixture of black, white, and grey. What is said of the nightingale by its 
greatest admirers is what may with more propriety apply to this bird, who, in a 
natural state, sings with very superior taste. Towards evening I have heard one 
begin softly, reserving its breath to swell certain notes, which, by this means, had 
a most astonishing effect. A gentleman in London had one of these birds for six 
years. During the space of a minute he was heard to imitate the woodlark, chaf- 
finch, blackbird, thrush, and sparrow. In this country (America) I have fre- 
quently known the mocking-birds so engaged in this mimicry, that it was with 
much difficulty I could ever obtain an opportunity of hearing their own natural 
note. Some go so far as to say, that they have neither peculiar notes, nor favour- 
ite imitations. This may be denied. Their few natural notes resemble those of 
the (European) nightingale. Their song, however, has a greater compass and 
volume than the nightingale's, and they have the faculty of varying all interme- 
diate notes in a manner which is truly delightful. — Ashe's Travels in America, 
vol. ii. p. 73. 

P. 127, 1. 3. 
And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar 1 
The Corybrechtan, or Corbrechtan, is a whirlpool on the western coast of Scot- 
land, near the island of Jura, which is heard at a prodigious distance. Its name 
signifies the whirlpool of the Prince of Denmark ; and there is a tradition that a 
Danish prince once undertook, for a wager, to cast anchor in it. He is said to 
have used woollen instead of hempen ropes, for greater strength, but perished in 
the attempt. On the shores of Argylcshire, I have often listened with great de- 
light to the sound of this vortex, at the distance of many leagues. When the 
weather is calm, and the adjacent sea scarcely heard on these picturesque shores, 
its sound, which is like the sound of innumerable chariots, creates a magnificent 
and fine effect. 

P. 129, 1. 22. 
Of buskin' d limb, and swarthy lineament; 
In the Indian tribes there is a great similarity in their colour, stature, &c. They 
are all, except the Snake Indians, tall in stature, straight, and robust. It is very 
seldom they are deformed, which has given rise to the supposition that they put 
to death their deformed children. Their skin is of a copper colour ; their eyes 
large, bright, black, and sparkling, indicative of a subtle, and discerning mind : 
their hair is of the same colour, and prone tc be long, seldom or never curled. 
Their teeth are large and white ; I never observed any decayed among them, 
which makes their breath as sweet as the air they inhale. — Travels through America, 
by Captains Lewis and Clarke, in 1804-5-6. 



NOTES. 341 

P. 130. 1. 8. 
" Peace be to thee ! my words this belt approve ; 
The Indians of North America accompany every formal address to strangers, 
with whom they form or recognise a treaty of amity, with a present of a string, 
or belt, of wampum. Wampum (says Cadwallader Colden) is made of the large 
whelk shell, buccinum, and shaped like long beads : it is the current money of the 
Indians. — History of the Five Indian Nations, p. 34. New York edition. 

P. 130, 1. 9. 

The paths of peace my steps liave hither led: 

In relating an interview of Mohawk Indians with the Governor of New York, 

Colden quotes the following passage as a specimen of their metaphorical manner : 

" Where shall I seek the chair of peace 1 Where shall I find it but upon our path 1 

and whither doth our path lead us but unto this house 1" 

P. 130,1. 13. 

Our wampum league thy brethren did embrace : 
When they solicit the alliance, offensive or defensive, of a whole nation, they 
send an embassy with a large belt of wampum and a bloody hatchet, inviting them 
to come and drink the blood of their enemies. The wampum made use of on these 
and other occasions, before their acquaintance with the Europeans, was' nothing 
but small shells which they picked up by the sea-coasts, and on the banks of the 
lakes ; and now it is nothing but a kind of cylindrical beads, made of shells, while 
and black, which are esteemed among them as silver and gold are among us. The 
black they call the most valuable, and both together are their greatest riches and 
ornaments ; these among them answering all the end that money does amongst us. 
They have the art of stringing, twisting, and interweaving them into their belts, 
collars, blankets, and mocasins, &c. in ten thousand different sizes, forms, and 
figures, so as to be ornaments for every part of dress, and expressive to them of 
all their important transactions. They dye the wampum of various colours- and 
shades, and mix and dispose them with great ingenuity and order, and so as to be 
significant among themselves of almost every thing they please ; so that by theeo 
their words are kept, and their thoughts communicated to one another, as ours are 
by writing. The belts that pass from one nation to another in all treaties, decla- 
rations, and important transactions, are very carefully preserved in the cabins of 
their chiefs, and serve not only as a kind of record or history, but as a public 
treasure. — Major Rogers's Account of North America. 

P. 131,1. 10. 
As when the evil Manitou 
It is certain the Indians acknowledge one Supreme Being, or Giver of Life, who 
presides over all things ; that is, the Great Spirit, and they look up to him as the 
source of good, from whence no evil can proceed. They also believe in a bad 
Spirit, to whom they ascribe great power; and suppose that through his power all 
the evils which befal mankind are inflicted. To him, therefore, they pray in their 



342 NOTES. 

distresses, begging - that he would either avert their troubles, or moderate them 
when they are no longer avoidable. 

They hold also that there are good Spirits of a lower degree, who have their 
particular departments, in which they are constantly contributing to the happiness 
of mortals. These they suppose to preside over all the extraordinary productions 
of Nature, such as those lakes, rivers, and mountains that are of an uncommon 
magnitude ; and likewise the beasts, birds, fishes, and even vegetables or stones, 
that exceed the rest ,pf their species in size or singularity. — Clarke's Travels ■ 
among the Indians. 

The Supreme Spirit of Good is called by the Indians, Kitchi Manitou; and the 
Spirit of Evil, Matchi Manitou. 

P. 131,1. 25. 

Of fever-balm and sweet sagamitl : 
The fever-balm is a medicine used by these tribes ; it is a decoction of a bush 
called the Fever Tree. Sagamitie" is a kind of soup administered to their sick. 

P. 132,1. 8. 
And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rush'd 
With this lorn dove. 
The testimony of all travellers among the American Indians who mention their 
hieroglyphics, authorises me in putting this figurative language in the mouth of 
Outalissi. The dove is among them, as elsewhere, an emblem of meekness ; and 
the eagle, that of a bold, noble, and liberal mind. When the Indians speak of a 
warrior who soars above the multitude in person and endowments, they say. " he 
is like the eagle, who destroys his enemies, and gives protection and abundance 
to the weak of his own tribe." 

P. 133,1. 11. 

Far differently, the mute Oneyda took, tyc. 

They are extremely circumspect and deliberate in every word and action ; 
nothing hurries them into any intemperate wrath, but that inveteracy to their 
enemies which is rooted in every Indian's breast. In all other instances they are 
cool and deliberate, taking care to suppress the emotions of the heart. If an In- 
dian has discovered that a friend of his is in danger of being cut off by a lurking 
enemy, he does not tell him of his danger in direct terms as though he were in fear, 
but he first coolly asks him which way he is going that day, and having his answer, 
with the same indifference tells him that he has been informed that a noxious beast 
lies on the route he is going. This hint proves sufficient, and his friend avoids 
the danger with as much caution as though every design and motion of his enemy 
had been pointed out to him. 

If an Indian has been engaged for several days in the chase, and by accident 
continued long without food, when he arrives at the hut of a friend, where he knows 
that his wants will be immediately supplied, he takes care not to show the least 
symptoms of impatience, or betray the extreme hunger that he is tortured with ; 
but on being invited in, sits contentedly down, and smokes his pipe with as much 
composure as if his appetite was cloyed and he was perfectly at ease. He does the 



NOTES. 



343 



same if among- strangers. This custom is strictly adhered to by every tribe, as 
they esteem it a proof of fortitude, and think the reverse would entitle them to 
Xhe appellation of old women. 

If you tell an Indian that his children have greatly signalised themselves against 
an enemy, have taken many scalps, and brought home many prisoners, he does 
not appear to feel any strong emotions of pleasure on the occasion ; his answer 
generally is, — " They have done well," and he makes but very little inquiry about 
the matter ; on the contrary, if you inform him that his children are slain or taken 
prisoners, he makes no complaints; he only replies, "It is unfortunate:" and for 
some time asks no questions about how it happened. — Lewis and Clarke's Travels. 

P. 133,1. 12. 
His calumet of peace, <f-c. 

Nor is the calumet of less importance or less revered than the wampum in many 
transactions relative both to peace and war. The bowl of this pipe is made of a 
kind of soft red stone, which is easily wrought and hollowed out ; the stem is of 
cane, alder, or some kind of light wood, painted with different colours, and deco- 
rated with the heads, tails, and feathers of the most beautiful birds. The use of 
the calumet is to smoke either tobacco or some bark, leaf, or herb, which they often 
use instead of it, when they enter into an alliance on any serious occasion, or 
solemn engagements ; this being among them the most sacred oath that can b 
taken, the violation of which is esteemed most infamous, and deserving of severe 
punishment from Heaven. When they treat of war, the whole pipe and all its orna- 
ments are red : sometimes it is red only on one side, and by the disposition of the 
feathers, &c, one acquainted with their customs will know at first sight what the 
nation who presents it intends or desires. Smoking the calumet is also a religious 
ceremony on some occasions, and in all treaties is considered as a witness between 
the parties, or rather as an instrument by which they invoke the sun and moon to 
witness their sincerity, and to be as it were a guarantee of the treaty between them. 
This custom of the Indians, though to appearance somewhat ridiculous, is not 
without its reasons ; for as they find that smoking tends to disperse the vapours 
of the brain, to raise the spirits, and to qualify them for thinking and judging 
properly, they introduce it into their councils, where, after their resolves, the pipe 
was considered as a seal of their decrees, and as a pledge of their performance 
thereof it was sent to those they were consulting, in alliance or treaty with ; — so 
that smoking among them at the same pipe is equivalent to our drinking together 
and out of the same cup. — Major Rogers's Account of North America, 1766. 

The lighted calumet is also used among them for a purpose still more interesting 
than the expression of social friendship. The austere manners of the Indians for- 
bid any appearance of gallantry between the sexes in the day-time ; but at night 
the young lover goes a-calumetting, as his courtship is called. As these people 
live in a state of equality, and without fear of internal violence or theft in their 
own tribes, they leave their doors open by night as well as by day. The lover 
takes advantage of this liberty, lights his calumet, enters the cabin of his mistress, 
and gently presents it to her. If she extinguish it, she admits his addresses ; but 
if she surfer it to burn unnoticed, he retires with a disappointed and throbbing 
heart. — Ashe's Travels. 



344 



NOTES. 



P. 133, 1. 15. 

Train' d from his tree-rock' d cradle to his bier 
An Indian child, as soon as he is born, is swathed with clothes, or skins ; and 
being laid on his back, is bound down on a piece of thick board, spread over with 
soft moss. The board is somewhat larger and broader than the child, and bent 
pieces of wood, like pieces of hoops, are placed over its face to protect it, so that 
if the machine were suffered to fall the child probably would not be injured. 
When the women have any business to transact at home, they hang the boards on 
a tree, if there be one at hand, and set them a-swinging from side to side, like a 
pendulum, in order to exercise the children. — Weld, vol. ii. p. 246. 

P. 133,1. 16. 

T7ie fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
Impassive 

Of the active as well as passive fortitude of the Indian character, the following 
is an instance related by Adair in his Travels : — 

A party of the Senekah Indians came to war against the Katahba, bitter enemies 
to each other. — In the woods the former discovered a sprightly warrior belonging 
to the latter, hunting in their usual light dress : on his perceiving them, he sprang 
off for a hollow rock four or five miles distant, as they intercepted him from run- 
ning homeward. He was so extremely swift and skilful with the gun, as to kill 
seven of them in the running fight before they were able to surround and take 
him. They carried him to their country in sad triumph ; but though he had 
filled them with uncommon grief and shame for the loss of so many of their kin- 
dred, yet the love of martial virtue induced them to treat him, during their long 
journey, with a great deal more civility than if he had acted the part of a coward. 
The women and children, when they met him at their several towns, beat him 
and whipped him in as severe a manner as the occasion required, according to their 
law of justice, and at last he was formally condemned to die by the fiery torture. 
It might reasonably be imagined that what he had for some time gone through, 
by being fed with a scanty hand, a tedious march, lying at night on the bare 
ground, exposed to the changes of the weather, with his arms and legs extended 
in a pair of rough stocks, and suffering such punishment on his entering into 
their hostile towns, as a prelude to those sharp torments for which he was destined, 
would have so impaired his health and affected his imagination, as to have sent 
him to his long sleep, out of the way of any more sufferings. Probably this 
would have been the case with the major part of the white people under similar 
circumstances ; but I never knew this with any of the Indians ; and this cool- 
headed, brave warrior did not deviate from their rough lessons of martial virtue, 
but acted his part so well as to surprise and sorely vex his numerous enemies :— 
for when they were talcing him, unpinioned, in their wild parade, to the place of 
torture, which lay near to a river, he suddenly dashed down those who stood in 
his way, sprang off, and plunged into the water, swimming underneath like an 
otter, only rising to take breath, till he reached the opposite shore. He now as- 
cended the steep bank, but though he had good reason to be in a hurry, as many 
of the enemy were in the water, and others running, very like bloodhounds, in 



NOTES. 345 

pursuit of him, and the bullets flying around him from the time he took to the 
river, yet his heart did not allow him to leave them abruptly, without taking- leave 
in a formal manner, in return for the extraordinary favours they had done, and 
intended to do him. After slapping 1 a part of his body in defiance to them (con- 
tinues the author), he put up the shrill war-whoop, as his last salute, till some more 
convenient opportunity offered, and darted off in the manner of a beast broke loose 
from its torturing 1 enemies. He continued his speed so as to run by about mid- 
night of the same day as far as his eager pursuers were two days in reaching. 
There he rested till he happily discovered five of those Indians who had pursued 
him : — he lay hid a little way off their camp, till they were sound asleep. Every 
circumstance of his situation occurred to him, and inspired him with heroism. 
He was naked, torn, and hungry, and his enraged enemies were come up with 
him ; — but there was now every thing to relieve his wants, and a fair opportunity 
to save his life, and get great honour and sweet revenge, by cutting them oft". 
Resolution, a convenient spot, and sudden surprise, would effect the main object 
of all his wishes and hopes. He accordingly crept, took one of their tomahawks, 
and killed them all on the spot, — clothed himself, took a choice gun, and as much 
ammunition and provisions as he could well carry in a running march. He set 
off afresh with a light heart, and did not sleep for several successive nights, only 
when he reclined, as usual, a little before day, with his back to a tree. As it were 
by instinct, when he found he was free from the pursuing enemy, he made directly 
to the very place where he had killed seven of his enemies, and was taken by them 
for the fiery torture. He digged them up, burnt their bodies to ashes, and went 
home in safety with singular triumph. Other pursuing enemies came, on the even- 
ing of the second day, to the camp of their dead people, when the sight gave them 
a greater shock than they had ever known before. In their chilled war-council 
they concluded, that as he had done such surprising things in his defence before 
he was captivated, and since that in his naked condition, and now was well-armed, 
if they continued the pursuit he would spoil them all, for he surely was an enemy 
wizard, — and therefore they returned home. — Adair's General Observations on the 
American Indians, p. 394. 

It is surprising (says the same author) to see the long-continued speed of the 
Indians. Though some of us have often run the swiftest of them out of sight for 
about the distance of twelve miles, yet afterwards, without any seeming toil, they 
would stretch on, leave us out of sight, and outwind any horse. — Ibid, p. 318. 

If an Indian were driven out into the extensive woods, with only a knife and a 
tomahawk, or a small hatchet, it is not to be doubted but he would fatten even 
where a wolf would starve. He would soon collect fire by rubbing two dry pieces 
of wood together, make a bark hut, earthen vessels, and a bow and arrows ; then 
kill wild game, fish, fresh-water tortoises, gather a plentiful variety of vegetables 
and live in affluence. — Ibid, p. 410. 

P. 133, 1. 25. 

Mocasins are a sort of Indian buskins. 



346 NOTES. 

P. 134, 1. 3. 
" Sleep, wearied one ! and in the dreaming land 
Shouldst thou to-morrow with thy mother meet, 
There is nothing (says Charlevoix) in which these barbarians carry their super, 
stitions farther than in what regards dreams ; but they vary greatly in their man- 
ner of explaining themselves on this point. Sometimes it is the reasonable soul 
which ranges abroad, while the sensitive continues to animate the body. Some- 
times it is the familiar genius who gives salutary counsel with respect to what is 
going to happen. Sometimes it is a visit made by the soul of the object of which 
he dreams. But in whatever manner the dream is conceived, it is always looked 
upon as a thing sacred, and as the most ordinary way in which the gods make 
known their will to men. Filled with this idea, they cannot conceive how we 
should pay no regard to them. For the most part they look upon them either as 
a desire of the soul, inspired by some genius, or an order from him, and in conse- 
quence of this principle they hold it a religious duty to obey them. An Indian 
having dreamt of having a finger cut off, had it really cut off as soon as he awoke, 
having first prepared himself for this important action by a feast. Another having 
dreamt of being a prisoner, and in the hands of his enemies, was much at a loss 
what to do. He consulted the jugglers, and by the^r advice caused himself to be 
tied to a post, and burnt in several parts of the body. — Charlevoix, Journal of a 
Voyage to North America. 

P. 134,1. 11. 
From a flower shaped like a horn, which Chateaubriand presumes to be of the 
lotus kind, the Indians in their travels through the desert often find a draught of 
dew purer than any other water. 

P. 134, 1. 16. 

The crocodile, the condor of the rock, 
The alligator, or American crocodile, when full grown (says Bertram), is a very 
large and terrible creature, and of prodigious strength, activity, and swiftness in 
the water. I have seen them twenty feet in length, and some are supposed to be 
twenty-two or twenty-three feet in length. Their body is as large as that of a 
horse, their shape usually resembles that of a lizard, which is flat, or cuneiform, 
being compressed on each side, and gradually diminishing from the abdomen to 
the extremity, which, with the whole body, is covered with horny plates, or squama;, 
impenetrable when on the body of the live animal, even to a rifle-ball, except 
about their head, and just behind their fore-legs or arms, where, it is said, they are 
only vulnerable. The head of a full-grown one is about three feet, and the mouth 
opens nearly the same length. Their eyes are small in proportion, and seem sunk 
in the head, by means of the prominency of the brows ; the nostrils are large, 
inflated, and prominent on the top, so that the head on the water resembles, at a 
distance, a great chunk of wood floating about : only the upper jaw moves, which 
they raise almost perpendicular, so as to form a right angle with the lower one. 
In the forepart of the upper jaw, on each side, just under the nostrils, are two very 
large, thick, 6trong teeth, or tusks, not very sharp, but rather the shape of a cone! 



NOTES. 347 

these are as white as the finest polished ivory, and are not covered by any skin or 
lips, but always in sight, which gives the creature a frightful appearance : in the 
lower jaw are holes opposite to these teeth to receive them ; when they clap their 
jaws together, it causes a surprising noise, like that which is made by forcing a 
heavy plank with violence upon the ground, and may be heard at a great distance. 
But what is yet more surprising to a stranger, is the incredibly loud and terrifying 
roar which they are capable of making, especially in breeding-time. It most re- 
sembles very heavy distant thunder, not only shaking the air and waters, but caus- 
ing the earth to tremble ; and when hundreds are roaring at the same time, you 
can scarcely be persuaded but that tlie whole globe is violently and dangerously 
agitated. An old champion, who is, perhaps, absolute sovereign of a little lake or 
lagoon, (when fifty less than himself are obliged to content themselves with swell- 
ing and roaring in little coves round about,) darts forth from the reedy coverts, 
all at once, on the surface of the waters in a right line, at first seemingly as 
rapid as lightning, but gradually more slowly, until he arrives at the centre of the 
lake, where he stops. He now swells himself by drawing in wind and water 
through his mouth, which causes a loud sonorous rattling in the throat for near a 
minute; but it is immediately forced out again through his mouth and nostrils 
with a loud noise, brandishing his tail in the air, and the vapour running from his 
nostrils like smoke. At other times, when swoln to an extent ready to burst, his 
head and tail lifted up, he spins or twirls round on the surface of the water. He 
acts his part like an Indian chief, when rehearsing his feats of war. — Bertram's 
Travels in North America. 

P. 134,1. 24. 

Tlien forth uprose that lone wayfaring man ; 

They discover an amazing sagacity, and acquire, with the greatest readiness, 
any thing that depends upon the attention of their mind. By experience, and an 
acute observation, they attain many perfections to which the Americans are stran- 
gers. For instance, they will cross a forest or a plain, which is two hundred miles 
in breadth, so as to reach with great exactness the point at which they intend to 
arrive, keeping, during the whole of that space, in a direct line, without any ma- 
terial deviations ; and this they will do with the same ease, let the weather be fair 
or cloudy. With equal acuteness they will point to that part of the heavens the 
sun is in, though it be intercepted by clouds or fogs. Besides this, they are able 
to pursue, with incredible facility, the traces of man or beast, either on leaves or 
grass ; and on this account it is with great difficulty they escape discovery. They 
are indebted for these talents not only to nature, but to an extraordinary command 
of the intellectual qualities, which can only be acquired by an unremitted atten- 
tion, and by long experience. They are, in general, very happy in a retentive 
memory. They can recapitulate every particular that has been treated of in coun- 
cils, and remember the exact time when they were held. Their belts of wampum 
preserve the substance of the treaties they have concluded with the neighbouring 
tribes for ages back, to which they will appeal and refer with as much perspicuity 
and readiness as Europeans can to their written records. 

The Indians are totally unskilled in geography, as well as all the other sciences, 



348 NOTES. 

and yet they draw on their birch-bark very exact charts or maps of the countries 
they are acquainted with. The latitude and longitude only are wanting to make 
them tolerably complete. 

Their sole knowledge in astronomy consists in being able to point out the polar 
Btar, by which they regulate their course when they travel in the night. 

They reckon the distance of places not by miles or leagues, but by a day's jour- 
ney, which, according to the best calculation I could make, appears to be about 
twenty English miles. These they also divide into halves and quarters, and will 
demonstrate them in their maps with great exactness by the hieroglyphics just 
mentioned, when they regulate in council their war-parties, or their most distant 
hunting excursions. — Lewis and Clarke's Travels. 

Some of the French missionaries have supposed that the Indians are guided by 
instinct, and have pretended that Indian children can find their way through a 
forest as easily as a person of maturer years ; but this is a most absurd notion. It 
is unquestionably by a close attention to the growth of the trees, and position of 
the sun, that they find their way. On the northern side of a tree there is generally 
the most moss ; and the bark on that side, in general, differs from that on the op- 
posite one. The branches toward the south are, for the most part, more luxuriant 
than those on the other sides of trees, and several other distinctions also subsist 
between the northern and southern sides, conspicuous to Indians, being taught 
from their infancy to attend to them, which a common observer would, perhaps, 
never notice. Being accustomed from their infancy likewise to pay great attention 
to the position of the sun, they learn to make the most accurate allowance for its 
apparent motion from one part of the heavens to another : and in every part of the 
day they will point to the part of the heavens where it is, although the sky be ob- 
scured by clouds or mists. 

An instance of their dexterity in finding their way through an unknown country 
came under my observation when I was at Staunton, situated behind the Blue 
Mountains, Virginia. A number of the Creek nation had arrived at that town on 
their way to Philadelphia, whither they were going upon some affairs of import- 
ance, and had stopped there for the night. In the morning some circumstance or 
other, which could not be learned, induced one half of the Indians to set off without 
their companions, who did not follow until some hours afterwards. When these 
last were ready to pursue their journey, several of the towns-people mounted their 
horses to escort them part of the way. They proceeded along the high road for 
some miles, but, all at once, hastily turning aside into the woods, though there 
was no path, the Indians advanced confidently forward. The people who accom- 
panied them, surprised at this movement, informed them that they were quitting 
the road to Philadelphia, and expressed their fear lest they should miss their com- 
panions who had gone on before. They answered that they knew better, that the 
way through the woods was the shortest to Philadelphia, and that they knew very 
well that their companions had entered the wood at the very place where they 
did. Curiosity led some of the horsemen to go on ; and to their astonishment, for 
there was apparently no track, they overtook the other Indians in the thickest part 
of the wood. But what appeared most singular was, that the route which they 
took was found, on examining a map, to be as direct for Philadelphia as if they 



NOTES. 



349 



had taken the bearings by a mariner's compass. From others of their nation, who 
had been at Philadelphia at a former period, they had probably learned the exact di- 
rection of that city from their villages, and had never lost sight of it, although they 
had already travelled three hundred miles through the woods, and had upwards of 
four hundred miles more to go before they could reach the place of their destina- 
tion. Of the exactness with which they can find out a strange place to which they 
have been once directed by their own people, a striking example is furnished, I 
think, by Mjr. Jefferson, in his account of the Indian graves in Virginia. These 
graves are nothing more than large mounds of earth in the woods, which, on being 
opened, are found to contain skeletons in an erect posture : the Indian mode of 
sepulture has been too often described to remain unknown to you. But to come 
to my story. A party of Indians that were passing on to some of the seaports on 
the Atlantic, just as the Creeks above mentioned were going to Philadelphia, were 
observed, all on a sudden, to quit the straight road by which they were proceed- 
ing, and without asking any questions to strike through the woods, in a direct 
line, to one of these graves, which lay at the distance of some miles from the road. 
Now very near a century must have passed over since the part of Virginia in which 
this grave was situated had been inhabited by Indians, and these Indian travellers, 
who were to visit it by themselves, had unquestionably never been in that part of 
the country before : they must have found their way to it simply from the descrip- 
tion of its situation, that had been handed down to them by tradition. — Weld's 
Travels in North America, vol. ii. 

P. 140, 1. 5. 

Their fathers' dust 

It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the 
cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century. 

P. 142,1. 21. 

Or wild-cane arch high flung o' er gulf profound, 

The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to 

be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved 

in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous 

and picturesque scenery. 

P. 152,1. 17. 
The Mammoth comes, 

That I am justified in making the Indian chief allude to the mammoth as an em- 
blem of terror and destruction, will be seen by the authority quoted below. Speak- 
ing of the mammoth orbig buffalo, Mr. Jefferson states, that a tradition is preserved 
among the Indians of that animal still existing in the northern parts of America. 

"A delegation of warriors from the Delaware tribe having visited the governor 
of Virginia during the revolution, on matters of business, the governor asked them 
some questions relative to their country, and, among others, what they knew oi 
had heard of the animal whose bones were found at the Salt-licks, on the Ohio. 
Their chief speaker immediately put himself into an attitude of oratory, and with 

27 



350 NOTES. 

a pomp suited to what he conceived the elevation of his subject, informed him that 
it was a tradition handed down from their fathers, that in ancient times a herd of 
these tremendous animals came to the Big-bone-licks, and began an universal de- 
struction of the bear, deer, elk, buffalo, and other animals which had been created 
for the use of the Indians. That the Great Man above looking down and seeing 
this, was so enraged, that he seized his lightning, descended on the earth, seated 
himself on a neighbouring mountain, on a rock on which his seat and the prints 
of his feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till the whole were 
slaughtered, except the big bull, who, presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook 
them off as they fell, but missing one at length it wounded him in the side, where- 
on, springing round, he bounded over the Ohio, over the Wabash, the Illinois, and 
finally over the great lakes, where he is living at this day." — Jefferson's Notes on 
Virginia. 

P. 152,1. 27. 

Scorning to wield the hatchet for his bribe, 

' Gainst Brandt himself I went to battle forth : 

I took the character of Brandt, in the poem of Gertrude, from the common His- 
tories of England, all of which represented him as a bloody and bad man, (even 
among savages,) and chief agent in the horrible desolation of Wyoming. Some 
years after this poem appeared, the son of Brandt, a most interesting and intelli- 
gent youth, came oyer to England, and I formed an acquaintance with him, on 
which I still look back with pleasure. He appealed to my sense of honour and 
justice, on his own part and on that of his sister, to retract the unfair aspersions 
which, unconscious of their unfairness, I had cast on his father's memory. 

He then referred me to documents, which completely satisfied me that the com- 
mon accounts of Brandt's cruelties at Wyoming, which J had found in books of 
Travels and in Adolphus's and similar Histories of England, were gross errors, 
and that in point of fact Brandt was not even present at that scene of desolation. 

It is, unhappily, to Britons and Anglo-Americans that we must refer the chief 
blame in this horrible business. I published a letter expressing this belief in the 
New Monthly Magazine, in the year 1822, to which I must refer the reader — if he 
has any curiosity on the subject — for an antidote to my fanciful description of 
Brandt. Among other expressions to young Brandt, I made use of the following 
words : — " Had I learnt all this of your father when I was writing my poem, he 
should not have figured in it as the hero of mischief." It was but bare justice to 
say thus much of a Mohawk Indian, who spoke English eloquent y. and was 
thought capable of having written a history of the Six Nations. I ascertained, 
also, that he often strove to mitigate the cruelty of Indian warfare. The name of 
Brandt, therefore, remains in my poem a pure and declared character of fiction. 

P. 153, 1. 3. 

To whom nor relative nor blood remains, 
No! — not a kindred drop that runs in human veins! 
Every one who recollects the specimen of Indian eloquence given in the speech 
of Logan, a Mingo chief, to the governor of Virginia, will perceive that I have 



NOTES. 351 

attempted to paraphrase its concluding and most striking expression : — " There 
runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature." The similar 
salutation of the fictitious personage in my story, and the real Indian orator, makes 
it surely allowable to borrow such an expression ; and if it appears, as it cannot 
but appear, to less advantage than in the original, I beg the reader to reflect how 
difficult it is to transpose such exquisitely simple words, without sacrificing a 
portion of their effect. 

In the spring of 1774, a robbery and murder were committed on an inhabitant of 
the frontiers of Virginia, by two Indians of the Shawanee tribe. The neighbour- 
ing whites, according to their custom, undertook to punish this outrage in a sum- 
mary manner. Colonel Cresap, a man infamous for the many murders he had 
committed on those much injured people, collected a party and proceeded down 
the Kanaway in quest of vengeance ; unfortunately, a canoe with women and chil- 
dren, with one man only, was seen coming from the opposite shore unarmed, and 
unsuspecting an attack from the whites. Cresap and his party concealed them- 
selves on the bank of the river, and the moment the canoe reached the shore, sin- 
gled out their objects, and at one fire killed every person in it. This happened to 
be the family of Logan, who had long been distinguished as a friend to the whites. 
This unworthy return provoked his vengeance ; he accordingly signalised himself 
in the war which ensued. ■ In the autumn of the same year a decisive battle was 
fought at the mouth of the great Kanaway, in which the collected forces of the 
Shawanees, Mingoes, and Delawares, were defeated by a detachment of the Vir- 
ginian militia. The Indians sued for peace. Logan, however, disdained to be 
seen among the suppliants ; but lest the sincerity of a treaty should be disturbed, 
from which so distinguished a chief abstracted himself, he sent, by a messenger, 
the following speech to be delivered to Lord Punmore: — 

" I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he 
gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and hungry, and he clothed him not. 
During the course of the last long and bloody war Logan remained idle in his 
cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love for the whites, that my country- 
men pointed as they passed, and said, Logan is the friend of the white men. I 
have even thought to have lived with you, but for the injuries of one man. Colo- 
nel Cresap, the last spring, in cold blood, murdered all the relations of Logan, 
even my women and children. 

" There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature : — this 
called on me for revenge. I have fought for it. I have killed many. 1 have 
fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I rejoice at the beams of peace ; — 
but do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. 
He will not turn on his heel to save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan 7 
not one !" — Jefferson's Notes on Virginia. 



352 NOTES. 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

P. 171,1. 12. 
The dark-attired Culdee, 
The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only 
clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin, and 
their monastery on the island of Iona, or Icolmkill, was the seminary of Christian- 
ity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have 
been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It 
seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy : — but that they 
were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by 
their resisting the Papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on 
which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make 
way for more Popish canons. 

P. 174,1. 14. 
And the shield of alarm was dumb, 
Striking the shield was an ancient mode of convocation to war among the Gael. 

P. 179. 
The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in 
Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles 
above Bonn on the Rhine, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight 
of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded 
account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, 
its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the ro- 
mantic landscape of the Drachenfels, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent 
islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. 

P. 186, 1. 14. 

That erst the advent' rous Norman wore, 
A Norman leader, in the service of the King of Scotland, married the heiress 
of Lochow, in the twelfth century, and from him the Campbells are sprung. 

P. 216,1. 17. 
Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, 
Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting, that it 
arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on 
the wall, as he lay asleep. 

P. 224,1. 18. 
Where the Norman encamp' d him of old, 
What is called the East Hill, at Hastings, is crowned with the works of an an- 
cient camp ; and it is more than probable it was the spot which William I. occu- 
pied between his landing and the battle which gave him England's crown. It 
is a strong position j the works are easily traced. 



NOTES. 353 

P. 229, 1. 9. 
France turns from her abandon! d friends afresh, 
The fact ought to be universally known, that France is at this moment indebted 
to Poland for not being invaded by Russia. When the Grand Duke Constantine 
fled from Warsaw, he left papers behind him proving that the Russians, after the 
Parisian events in July, meant to have marched towards Paris, if the Polish in- 
surrection had not prevented them. 

P. 238, 1. 1. 

Tliee, Niemciewitz, 
-This venerable man, the most popular and influential of Polish poets, and presi- 
dent of the academy in Warsaw, was in London when this poem was written : he 
was then seventy-four years old ; but his noble spirit is rather mellowed than de- 
cayed by age. He was the friend of Fox, Kosciusko, and Washington. Rich in 
anecdote like Franklin, he has also a striking resemblance to him in countenance. 

P. 239, 1. 14. 

Nor church-bell 



In Catholic countries you often hear the church-bells rung to propitiate Heaven 
during thunder-storms. 

P. 249, ]. 4. 

Regret the lark that gladdens England's morn, 
Mr. P. Cunningham, in his interesting work on New South Wales, gives the 
following account of its song-birds : — " We are not moved here with the deep 
mellow note of the blackbird, poured out from beneath some low stunted bush, 
nor thrilled with the wild warblings of the thrush perched on the top of some tall 
sapling, nor charmed with the blithe carol of the lark as we proceed early a-field ; 
none of our birds rivalling those divine songsters in realising the poetical idea 
of ' the music of the grove:' while ' parrots' chattering 3 must supply the place of 
' nightingales' singing' in the future amorous lays of our sighing Celadons. We 
have our lark, certainly; but both his appearance and note are a most wretched 
parody upon the bird about which our English Poets have made so many fine 
similes. He will mount from the ground and rise, fluttering upwards in the same 
manner, and with a few of the starting notes of the English lark ; but, on reaching 
the height of thirty feet or so, down he drops suddenly and mutely, diving into 
concealment among the long grass, as if ashamed of his pitiful attempt. For the 
pert frisky robin, pecking and pattering against the windows in the dull days of 
winter, we have the lively 'superb warbler,' with his blue shining plumage and 
his long tapering tail, picking up the crumbs at our doors ; while the pretty red- 
bills, of the size and form of the goldfinch, constitute the sparrow of our clime, 
flying in flocks about our houses, and building their soft downy pigmy nests 
in the orange, peach, and lemon trees surrounding them." — Cunningliam's Two 
Years in New South Wales, vol ii. p. 216. 



354 NOTES. 

P. 260, 1. 24. 
Oh, feeble statesmen — ignominious times, 
There is not upon record a more disgusting - scene of Russian hypocrisy, and 
(woe that it must be written !) of British humiliation, than that which passed on 
board the Talavera, when British sailors accepted money from the Emperor Ni- 
cholas, and gave him cheers. It will require the Talavera to fight well with the 
first Russian ship that she may have to encounter, to make us forget that day. 

P. 272,1. 11. 

A'palsy-stroke of Nature shook Oran, 

In the year 1790, Oran, the most western city in the Algerine Regency, which 

had been possessed by Spain for more than a hundred years, and fortified at an 

immense expense, was destroyed by an earthquake ; six thousand of its inhabitants 

were buried under the ruins. 



THE PILGRIM OF GLENCOE. 



P. 280, 1. 1. 
The vale, by eagle-haunted cliff's o'erhung, 

The valley of Glencoe, unparalleled in its scenery for gloomy grandeur, is to 
this day frequented by eagles. When I visited the spot within a year ago. I saw 
several perch at a distance. Only one of them came so near me that I did not wish 
him any nearer. He favoured me with a full and continued view of his noble per- 
son, and with the exception of the African eagle which I saw wheeling and hover- 
ing over a corps of the French army that were marching from Oran, and who seemed 
to linger over them with delight at the sound of their trumpets, as if they were 
about to restore his image to the Gallic standard — I never saw a prouder bird than 
this black eagle of Glencoe. 

I was unable, from a hurt in my foot, to leave the carriage ; but the guide inform- 
ed me that, if I could go nearer the sides of the glen, I should see the traces of 
houses and gardens once belonging to the unfortunate inhabitants. As it was, I 
never saw a spot where I could less suppose human beings to have ever dwelt. I 
asked the guide how these eagles subsisted; he replied, "on the lambs and the 
fawns of Lord Breadalbane." — " Lambs and fawns !" I said ; " and how do they 
subsist, for I cannot see verdure enough to graze a rabbit 1 I suspect," I added, 
" that these birds make the cliffs only their country-houses, and that they go down 
to the Lowla"nds to find their provender." — " Ay, ay," replied the Highlander, " it 
is very possible, for the eagle can gang far for his breakfast." 



NOTES. 355 

P. 285, 1. 21. 
Witch-legends Ronald scorn'd — ghost, kelpie, wraith, 

"The most dangerous and malignant creature of Highland superstition was the 
kelpie, or water-horse, which was supposed to allure women and children to hia 
subaqueous haunts, and there devour them ; sometimes he would swell the lake 
or torrent beyond its usual limits, and overwhelm the unguarded traveller in ib.9 
flood. The shepherd, as he sat on the brow of a rock on a summer's evening, 
often fancied he saw this animal dashing along the surface of the lake, or brow- 
sing on the pasture-ground upon its verge." — Brown's History of the Highland 
Clans, vol. i. 106. 

In Scotland, according to Dr. John Brown, it is yet a superstitious principle 
that the wraith, the omen or messenger of death, appears in the resemblance of 
one in danger, immediately preceding dissolution. This ominous form, purely of 
a spiritual nature, seems to testify that the exaction (extinction) of life approaches. 
It was wont to be exhibited also, as " a little rough dog," when it could be pacified 
by the death of any other being " if crossed, and conjured in time." — Brown's 
Superstitions of the Highlands, p. 182. 

It happened to me, early in life, to meet with an amusing instance of Highland 
superstition with regard to myself. I lived in a family of the Island of Mull, and 
a mile or two from their house there was a burial-ground without any church at- 
tached to it, on the lonely moor. The cemetery was enclosed and guarded by an 
iron railing, so high, that it was thought to be unscaleable. I was, however, com- 
mencing the study of botany at the time, and thinking there might be some nice 
flowers and curious epitaphs among the grave-stones, I contrived, by help of my 
handkerchief, to scale the railing, and was soon scampering over the tombs ; some 
of the natives chanced to perceive, not in the act of climbing over to — but skip- 
ping over, the burial-ground. In a day or two I observed the family looking on 
me with unaccountable, though not angry seriousness : at last the good old grand- 
mother told me, with tears in her eyes, "that I could not live long, for that my 
wraith had been seen." — "And, pray, where?" — "Leaping over the stones of the 
burial-ground." The old lady was much relieved to hear that it was not my 
wraith, but myself. 

Akin to other Highland superstitions, but differing from them in many essential 
respects, is the belief — for superstition it cannot well be called (quoth the wise 
author I am quoting) — in the second-sight, by which, as Dr. Johnson observes, 
"seems to be meant a mode of seeing superadded to that which Nature generally 
bestows ; and consists of an impression made either by the mind upon the eye — or 
by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant or future are perceived and 
seen, as if they were present. This deceptive faculty is called Traioshe in the 
Gaelic, which signifies a spectre or vision, and is neither voluntary nor constant 
but consists in seeing an otherwise invisible object, without any previous meant 
used by the person that sees it for that end. The vision makes such a lively in. 
pression upon the seers, that they neither see nor think of any thing else excepi 
the vision, as long as it continues ; and then they appear pensive or jovial, accord- 
ing to the object which was represented to them." 



356 NOTES. 

There are now few persons, if any (continues Dr. Brown), who pretend to this 
faculty, and the belief in it is almost generally exploded. Yet it cannot be denied 
that apparent proofs of its existence have been adduced, which have staggered 
minds not prone to superstition. When the connexion between cause and effect 
can be recognised, things which would otherwise have appeared wonderful, and 
almost incredible, are viewed as ordinary occurences. The impossibility of ac- 
counting for such an extraordinary phenomenon as the alleged faculty on philo- 
sophical principles, or from the laws of nature, must ever leave the matter sus- 
pended between rational doubt and confirmed scepticism. " Strong reasons for 
incredulity," says Dr. Johnson, "will readily occur." This faculty of seeing 
things out of sight is local, and commonly useless* It is a breach of the common 
(irder of things, without any visible reason or perceptible benefit. It is ascribed 
only to a people very little enlightened, and among them, for the most part, to the 
mean and ignorant. 

In the whole history of Highland superstitions, there is not a more curious fact 
than that Dr. James Brown, a gentleman of the Edinburgh bar, in the nineteenth 
century, should show himself a more abject believer in the truth of second-sight, 
than Dr. Samuel Johnson, of London, in the eighteenth century. 

P. 287, 1. 2. 
The pit or gallows would have cured my grief. 

Until the year 1747, the Highland Lairds had the right of punishing serfs even 
capitally, in so far that they often hanged, or imprisoned them in a pit or dun- 
geon, where they were starved to death. But the law of 1746, for disarming the 
Highlanders and restraining the use of the Highland garb, was followed up the 
following year by one of a more radical and permanent description. This was the 
act for abolishing the heritable jurisdictions, which, though necessary in a rude 
state of society, were wholly incompatible with an advanced stage of civilization. 
By depriving the Highland chiefs of their judicial powers, it was thought that the 
sway which, for centuries, they had held over their people, would be gradually 
impaired ; and that by investing certain judges, who were amenable to the legis- 
lature for the proper discharge of their duties, with the civil and criminal juris- 
diction enjoyed by the proprietors of the soil, the cause of good government 
would be promoted, and the facilities for repressing any attempts to disturb the 
public tranquillity increased. 

By this act (20 George II. c. 43), which was made to the whole of Scotland, all 
leritable jurisdictions of justiciary, all regalities and heritable bailieries, and con- 
stabularies (excepting the office of high constable,) and all stewartries and sheriff- 
ships of smaller districts, which were only parts of counties, were dissolved, and 
the powers formerly vested in them were ordained to be exercised by such of the 
king's courts as these powers would have belonged to, if the jurisdictions had 
never been granted. All sheriffships and stewartries not dissolved by the statute ; 
namely, those which comprehended whole counties, where they had been granted 
either heritably or for life, were resumed and annexed to the crown. With the ex- 
ception of the hereditary justiciaryship of Scotland, which was transferred from 
the family of Argyle to the High Court of Justiciary, the other jurisdictions were 



NOTES. 357 

ordained to be vested in sheriffs-depute or stewarts-depute, to be appointed by the 
king - in every shire or stewartry not dissolved by the act. As by the twentieth of 
Union, all heritable offices and jurisdictions were reserved to the grantees as rights 
of property ; compensation was ordained to be made to the holders, the amount ot 
which was afterwards fixed by parliament, in terms of the act of Sederunt of tho 
Court of Session, at one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. 

P. 287, 1, 4. 

I march? d — when, feigning Royalty's command, 
Against the clan Macdonald, Stair's Lord 
Sent forth exMrminating fire and sword ; 

I cannot agree with Brown, the author of an able work, " The History of the 
Highland Clans," that the affair of Glencoe has stamped indelible infamy on the 
government of King William III., if by this expression it be meant that William's 
own memory is disgraced by that massacre. I see no proof that William gave 
more than general orders to subdue the remaining malcontents of the Macdonald 
clan ; and these orders, the nearer we trace them to the government, are the more 
express in enjoining, that all those who would promise to swear allegiance should 
be spared. As these orders came down from the general government to individ 
uals, they became more and more severe, and at last merciless, so that they ulti 
mately ceased to be the real orders of government. Among these false agents of 
government, who appear with most disgrace, is the " Master of Stair," who ap- 
pears in the business more like a fiend than a man. When issuing his orders for 
the attack on the remainder of the Macdonalds in Glencoe, he expressed a hope in 
his letter " that the soldiers would trouble the government with no prisoners." 

It cannot be supposed that I would for a moment palliate this atrocious event by 
quoting the provocations not very long before offered by the Macdonalds in mas- 
sacres of the Campbells. But they may be alluded to as causes, though not ex- 
cuses. It is a part of the melancholy instruction which history affords us, that in 
the moral as well as in the physical world there is always a reaction equal to the 
action. — The banishment of the Moors from Spain to Africa was the chief cause 
of African piracy and Christian slavery among the Moors for centuries ; and 
since the reign of William III. the Irish Orangemen have been the Algerines 
of Ireland. 

The affair of Glencoe was in fact only a lingering trait of horribly barbarous 
times, though it was the more shocking that it came from that side of the political 
world which professed to be the more liberal side, and it occurred at a late time of 
the day, when the minds of both parties had become comparatively civilised, the 
whigs by the triumph of free principles, and the tories by personal experience of 
the evils attending persecution. Yet that barbarism still subsisted in too many 
minds professing to act on liberal principles, is but too apparent from this disgust- 
ing tragedy. 

I once flattered myself that the Argyle Campbells, from whom I am sprung, had 
no share in this massacre, and a direct share they certainly had not. But on in- 
quiry I find that they consented to shutting up the passes of Glencoe through 
which the Macdonalds might escape : and perhaps relations of my great-grand- 



358 



NOTES, 



father — I am afraid to count their distance or proximity — might be indirectly 
concerned in the cruelty. 

But children are not answerable for the crimes of their forefathers ; and I hope 
and trust that the descendants of Breadalbane and Glenlyon are as much and 
justly at their ease on this subject as I am. 

P. 294, 1. 28. 

Chance snatch' d them from proscription and despair. 

Many Highland families, at the outbreak of the rebellion in 1745, were saved 
from utter desolation by the contrivances of some of their more sensible mem- 
bers, principally the women, who foresaw the consequences of the insurrection. 
When I was a youth in the Highlands, I remember an old gentleman being 
pointed out to me, who, finding all other arguments fail, had, in conjunction 
with his mother and sisters, bound the old laird hand and foot, and locked him 
up in his own cellar, until the news of the battle of Culloden had arrived. 

A device pleasanter to the reader of the anecdote, though not to the sufferer, 
was practised by a shrewd Highland dame, whose husband was Charles-Stewart 
mad, and was determined to join the insurgents. He told his wife at night that 
he should start early to-morrow morning on horseback. " Well, but you will 
allow me to make your breakfast before you go 7" " Oh yes." She accordingly 
prepared it, and, bringing in a full boiling kettle, poured it, by intentional acci- 
dent, on his legs. 



NOTE TO THE VERSES ON WINKELRIED. 

P. 319. 

The advocates of classical learning tell us that, without classic historians, we 
should ne/ver become acquainted.with the most splendid traits of human char- 
acter; but one of those traits, patriotic self-devotion, may surely be heard of 
elsewhere, without learning Greek and Latin. There are few, who have read 
modern history, unacquainted with the noble voluntary death of the Switzer 
Winkelried. Whether he was a peasant or man of superior birth is a point not 
quite settled in history, though I am inclined to suspect that he was simply a 
peasant. But this is certain, that in the battle of Sempach, perceiving that there 
was no other means of breaking the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by 
gathering as many of their spears as he could grasp together, he opened a 
passuge for his fellow-combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed 
down the mailed men-at-arms, and won the victory. 



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Enoch Crosby; or, Whig against Tory, a Tale of the Revolution— 104 pages. 

Hieroglyphic Bible, illustrated with nearly 500 cuts— 132 pages. 

My Friend's Family, by Mrs. Marshall. 

Book of Murders, with numerous engravings. 12mo 

Blue Laws of Connecticut, with engravings — 12mo. 

Cobb's Walker's Dictionary. 

Walker's Pocket Dictionary, ISraO. 

Noyrs' Penmanship. 



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